


Hostage

by Eireann



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Aethelrik, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hostage Situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-14 22:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: The Thurgilsons' plan to take Aethelflaed of Mercia prisoner has succeeded and now all that remains is to extort the ransom from her father and husband.But as so often happens with the best-laid plans, fate intervenes....This is an AU story - my take on what might have happened.





	1. Aethelflaed

**Author's Note:**

> The Last Kingdom is copyrighted to Carnival Film and Television. No infringement is intended and no money made.

‘Father ... oh, _Father!_ ’

The words run through my mind like a prayer, but prayer will not keep back the barbarians who press around me.  The wall of noise assaults my ears, but I will give none of these Danes the satisfaction of seeing the daughter of Alfred of Wessex and the wife of Æthelred of Mercia cower like a serving-maid.  It is the Lady of Mercia whom they hold prisoner, and I keep my head proudly high; whatever the cost, I will not let them see me weep.

The voice from behind me speaks in my ear.  It is warm with its owner’s pleasure in his own cleverness, but nonetheless I catch the note of a wish to reassure me a little, to prepare me for what is to come.  “There will be many men inside.  They will want to get close to you, look you in the eye.”

_Of course they will.  I am Æthelflaed of Mercia, of Wessex, and I am a prisoner._

_My own husband’s folly has brought me to this._

“They will want to frighten me.”  I force the words through lips that are frozen with fear already, but I will not let him think me mute with dread.

“They will.”  At least he does not insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise; but I feel his right hand detach from the rein, and give me the smallest squeeze as he holds me steady before him.  He is a barbarian, a Dane and an enemy, and yet I have the strangest feeling that he means to give me courage.

The memory rushes through my mind of my capture in the woods.  I had never felt so alone, so terrified.  Already the screams of other captured women rent the silence; what other could I expect, king’s daughter or no?

 _I will not scream_ , the promise ran through my mind.  _Whatever they do, I will not scream._   But nevertheless, terror filled me; I had ample experience of what pain a man can inflict on a woman’s parts.  My husband desired heirs of me, and was not gentle....

But this man who now bears me before him on his horse had been one of my captors.  When at last I was brought to bay and could run no further, he had not seized me and flung me to the ground to lift my skirts.

“Lady,” he had said, coming to a halt in front of me.  “Lady Æthelflaed.”

“You mistake,” I said, trembling and panting.  Not to save myself from ravishment, but to save my father’s daughter from capture.  Maybe when they had had their pleasure they would kill me, and that would be the sword removed from the throat of Wessex.

“No mistake, Lady,” he said, gently enough.  “You are my prisoner.  You will be treated with the respect due to a king’s daughter, I swear it.”

“And you are?” I flung back at him.

“I am Erik Thurgilson, Lady, and I offer you my protection if you will accept it.”

It was gentle of him to make it sound as though I had a choice.  And though I had heard dreadful tales of the Thurgilson brothers, and his face was filled with triumph and determination, still his eyes were kind, and the hand he extended towards me was open for me to take or spurn.

A gesture only; I was his prisoner, whether I would or no.  But I laid my hand in his, reluctant token of surrender and my acceptance of his protection.

The walk back into camp beside him was a foretaste of this entry into Beamfleot.  I saw the bodies of the dead, saw Danes rutting on helpless women – women I knew, and who were here only in my service.  I looked around in terror for Thyra, but did not see her; dear Father Beocca had left her with me, in the protection of the Lady of Mercia....

They were in haste to be away, of course.  My lord husband would return to find an empty camp and the proof of his own reckless stupidity laid bare.

They gave me my own horse until we were well clear, for better speed, though its bridle was safely tied to Lord Thurgilson’s lest I had any thought of escape.  Indeed I had thoughts of escape – more than once during that wild ride I thought of casting myself from the saddle so that my neck might be broken on the hard ground, my body trampled by the horses following.  But he watched me closely, doubtless understanding much of all this, and besides, over and over again I saw a face in my mind’s eye; one that brought me comfort and hope, even in my despair.

Not my husband’s.  Forwhy should I have any hope in him?  Behind his handsome face is a weak man, a cruel man, a reed bent by the wind.  He will care for nothing save his own weal.  And though they may not be daughters of the King of Wessex, wives are easy to come by.

No.  It was Uhtred’s face I saw, Uhtred’s before any man’s.  Though I had seen him only seldom since my lord father began to hold his stubborn paganism against him, still I trusted him utterly.  He could speak with these Danes, could bargain with them....

_Bargain for Wessex’s downfall!_

The great roar of noise brings me back to the present.  Erik’s brother Sigefrid is speaking – or rather shouting; not for him the quiet authority of my father the King.  He is a dark, hulking brute of a man, with teeth that flash in his black beard like those of a bear – even his smile looks to me like a snarl.

I am glad it was not _he_ who took me up before him on his horse....

“What did I say?” he bellows.  “I told you I would invite King Alfred’s daughter, and she is here!” Then, making himself heard above the cheers, “I swear to the gods, that this prize will not be sold cheaply _._

 _“There will be wealth and glory for every man here!_ ”

The words confirm my blackest fears.  I am a hostage, and my father will ransom me for whatever ruinous sum the Thurgilsons demand.  With this silver they will buy ships, arms, support – and with these they will overwhelm Wessex like the ravening sea washing over a breached dyke in a summer storm.

Behind me, Erik is laughing, sharing in the general triumph. I stare about wildly, hating him, hating all these barbarians who see in me nothing but the means of my father’s destruction. But even in the midst of laughter I feel the encircling arm tighten gently once more, reassurance from my father’s enemy.  Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back.  I will _not_ grant the barbarians the satisfaction of seeing Æthelflaed of Mercia weep.

(...Æthelflaed of Mercia.  My lady mother sought me out, the morning after my wedding.  Although duty and trouble have made her stern to outward seeming, still we love each other dearly.  Without words, her eyes asked _was all well_ , and though I put on my most valiant smile, still I saw hers crumble a little; and her manner to my husband after was chill....)

The horse comes to a halt amid the press, and he dismounts.  For a moment I sit there alone, the focus of all those greedy eyes.  The faces of Wessex’s enemies stare up at me, their hands touching my legs, pawing at my gown, lifting it to see my ankles and more.

“Lady.” He holds the horse still, lifting a beckoning arm to me.  “You must come down now.”

Indeed, I have no choice.  With the best grace I can muster, I slide from the horse’s back.  Among all those bodies the beast shifts awkwardly, and I all but fall into his arms.  He steadies me carefully, shielding me from the coarse laughter, and I have the strangest desire to bury my face in the sheepskin about his shoulders and hide from the world....

That, however, would not be worthy of the Lady of Mercia.  I put off his steadying hands and show him my bravest face, looking directly up into his eyes.  Blue eyes, dark sea-blue in the torchlight, searching me intently, with something of surprise and a little of admiration.  “Where am I to be imprisoned?”

A prison has indeed been prepared for me.  A stable, musty but clean, and with fresh straw laid to sweeten it.  A bed has been brought in and placed against one wall, with a blanket and a rough mattress packed with bracken. “It is the best we have,” Thurgilson tell me, and gestures to the men who have accompanied us in.  “These are my own men, they will watch you.  You will have a guard at all times.  You will be safe here.”

‘Safe’?  Among the barbarians, a hostage in Beamfleot?  I am not safe!  “And my companions, my servants from the camp?” I demand.

At least he does not insult me with a worse well-meant lie. His voice is level, his words honest.  “Any woman who is not Æthelflaed will have been killed or claimed.”

‘Claimed’. Despoiled, enslaved.  My gorge rises in my throat.  Once again the words run through my mind _, All this, through my husband’s folly!_

I think it is in his mind to say more, but at a guess even he thinks it kindest to leave me to recover myself as best I may.  With a half-smile at me that might even hint at compassion and encouragement, he turns and strides from the stable; but though he assured me that I will be safe, the Northman who still lingers terrifies me even more than Sigefrid does.  Haesten, they called him on the ride hither.  His eyes slither over me, reptilian and covetous.  "Claimed, most likely." He smiles, plainly picturing it.

There is a pail; he makes a crude jest of it.  Then, to my relief, he too leaves. 

My cell feels cleaner when he is gone, the air fresher.

 _Father_ , I think, _Father, save me._ Then, when I remember what that rescue would achieve, I think words more fitting a Princess of Wessex: _Father, no – for all our dreams of Wessex and England, leave me here._

But again, it is Uhtred’s face I see when I close my eyes.


	2. Erik

_Victory!_

The taste of it is even sweeter than the mead spilling down my throat.

Around me the hall is raucous, with jubilant men already feeling the silver running through their palms.  Sigefrid is beside himself with joy; he already sees Wessex defeated, and himself the ruler of most of southern Britain.  Even Guthrum may look towards his borders when we have established ourselves, have grown fat on the wealth of Mercia and Wessex.  Who knows?  With these in our hands, we may conquer Cornwallum.  Wealas perhaps is beyond us, with its fortress mountains, but with the warriors such success would attract, we may even look towards Cumbraland, towards Northumbria itself.... On such a night as this, dreams come easily, and even I – normally a cautious man and a realist – find myself swept along by them.  A rich kingdom circled by the rich seas, and all ruled by the Danes!

A woman wrenches free from the grip of a warrior at one of the lower tables, and tries to run.  Her dress is torn, baring her breasts.  Half-blinded by her unbound hair, she trips over a hound.  She falls head-first into the firepit and screams as they drag her out; her hair is ablaze and someone throws a jug of ale over it, amid much laughter.  Then she is hauled back into the crowd, and her cries become part of the noise again.

She is a Saxon.  A prisoner.  A slave.  Nobody knows her name, and nobody cares.

Sigefrid guffaws with the rest, and fondles the serving-girl who refills our drinking-horns.  Her gown hangs loose, and she giggles as his hand slips inside.  Doubtless he will have her in the straw, later.

I think of the Lady Æthelflaed on my saddle-bow as we rode into Beamfleot.  Such a seat could not have been comfortable, for all that we packed it with sheepskin, but she made no complaint, riding with a straight-backed dignity. Of course she must have my arms about her, to keep her steady.  I made no effort not to notice the supple slenderness of her body against mine, though I paid her queenliness the tribute of carefully keeping my touch from her bosom, which was temptingly close above my arms.

Sigefrid may be outspoken and impulsive, but he knows me well, and he is no fool.  He notices I am drinking far more than is my usual custom.  “Drinking to our triumph, eh, Little Brother?” he bellows.  “Or is it the little princess who has stirred your cock?”

“She is a hostage.” I take another swallow of mead.  “She is valuable.  She will be _less_ valuable if she is harmed.”

“Pah! A good humping never harmed any woman!”

The slave with the burned hair, naked now, is being passed from man to man.  There is blood on her thighs, and I can see the tears running down her face.  Perhaps yesterday she was beautiful.

I set down my drinking horn and stand, without knowing I am going to. 

Sigefrid laughs uproariously.  “Show her what a Danish cock feels like!”

Without replying, I walk down the hall.

Once again without thinking, I pull men aside.  Some of them are mine, but all of them know who I am.  They bluster and curse, but they obey.

An arm-ring – even a small one of twisted silver wires – is an absurd price to pay for a slave.  It falls ringing on the table, the focus of startled eyes.  I do not have to pay them anything, simply declare her my property, but this is a victory feast and I want them distracted and happy.

I catch her by the wrist.  Her bones are thin in my grasp, like those of a sparrow.  The men are arguing over the arm-ring as I drag her from the hall, feeling Sigefrid’s eyes boring into my back.

Outside the rain is falling hard.  Few people are about. I had thought to take her to Æthelflaed, but that would be too obvious, too clear a sign of my sympathy.  I go to the stable, but rather than go in I summon Esbjorn from among the others; Dagfinn must remain here, on guard.  Esbjorn is loyal and quick-witted and I can trust him to keep his mouth shut.

“Get her a dress and a cloak and get her out of the fortress,” I order him, low-voiced. “See she gets as far as the Saxon lands and then let her go.”  I can do no more, and even this is risky. I am angry with her and with myself, and I do not watch them go.

I do not look at the stable again either, though the glow of lanterns within speaks of warmth, and Æthelflaed is there.  She thinks of me as a barbarian and an enemy.  She is a married woman, and maybe she is weeping for her husband, thinking she may never see him again.  In any case, she is a hostage, and ... precious.

My belly is already awash with mead, and to return alone to the hall so soon would invite suspicion.  So I go to my own house instead, the drink I have consumed souring in me already.

On the way I brush against Hynydd.  She is a slave from among the Cymraeg, slender as a whip and supple as a polecat.  Men talk, and over the ale I have heard she is good bedsport, her body warm and welcoming.

I am a man like other men.  Never before has the bed waiting for me seemed so empty.  I pause, and Hynydd stops.  If I crook my finger, she will follow.  She has no choice, and her hair is long and dark and soft. 

But tonight I all I notice is that her eyes are as blank as slate in the rain.


	3. Erik

Sigefrid is angry.

“Why don’t they send?” he bellows.  “Thor’s balls, they must know by now we have her!”

There is, of course, no possible response to this.  I have no route to the thoughts of Alfred of Wessex’s mind, and so I stay silent.

“And now she’s refusing to eat!” he bawls at me.  “The bitch will starve herself to death by the time the negotiations start!”

“She wishes to wash herself,” I reply, mildly enough.  “She’s not used to being kept mewed up like a hawk.”

His temper was uncertain enough before his right hand was cut off.  Ever since, he has been in constant pain, and he is both unpredictable and explosive.  He looses off a string of threats as to how Lady Æthelflaed may wash herself, and fearing that if she does not become more compliant he may well carry out at least one of them, I offer to see what I can do to make our captive more amenable.

Reluctantly I make my way to the stable.  I have avoided it since her arrival.  Not because I do not wish to see her face and hear her voice, but for completely the opposite reason – both have haunted my dreams, and the thought of witnessing her humiliation is hard to bear.

She rises as I enter.  The candlelight flows golden over her, and for all that she is a prisoner she holds herself with the pride of a princess of Wessex. Still, it seems to me that she has lost weight, and her eyes have the beginning of a hollow look.

It seems to me that she does not understand what danger her intransigence has placed her in.  I keep my voice impersonal as I point out the presence of a bowl of water; she has the wherewithal to wash.

This is insufficient, it appears.  Her manner suggests that only a barbarian such as myself would feel it adequate.  But I can sympathise with her claim that being shut up in this place is making her sickly.  The late summer heat bears down on it, and the thatch and small windows admit little fresh air.  The pail is emptied regularly, on my orders, but the smell of it still catches at the back of the throat.

I tell her of the threat Sigefrid has made: that she will be made to bathe herself in a barrel of water, before all our men.  I watch her realise what this would mean, and in my heart I am ashamed.  I love my brother, and I myself can be ruthless enough when circumstances demand, but there is a streak of cruelty in him that I deplore.

Still, there is always negotiation.  I send Dagfinn out, so that she will feel able to talk without the presence of an interested bystander, and then stepping a little closer, so that I may appear as a friend, I make an offer: I will arrange for her to bathe if she will agree to eat.  She is already as slender as a willow-wand, and captivity can so easily lead to sickness.  In summer there is always sickness along the river-ways, and Beamfleot has marshes where diseases breed like gnats.

Her refusing good food for so long is a token of her strength that I cannot help but admire, for all that it fills me with anxiety.  I am more relieved than I care to admit even to myself when she gives a pale smile and agrees.  It is the first time I have seen a smile from her, and the sight of it warms me to a smile of my own.  I nod, and turn to go and inform Sigefrid that I have solved our problem.  He will not be happy, but he trusts me, and I can talk him around.

“Thank you.” Her soft voice carries from behind me.  At the sound of it I almost stop.  I almost turn.  I want to go back and assure her that she has nothing to fear, that I will protect her.

Haesten is lounging in the doorway, eating an apple.  He watches me, his gaze speculative.

I push past him.  The man is useful, but I do not like him.

Now, I must talk to Sigefrid.


	4. Aethelflaed

Time is my worst enemy.

Here in Beamfleot I am a prisoner, and for the first time that I can remember, the hours hang heavy on my hands.  Back in Wintanceaster there were endless tasks for me to do; princess or no, my lady mother held that idle hands were the tools of the Devil, and saw to it that every hour of my day was occupied.  Apart from the skills that every gentlewoman was expected to learn, I had my father’s statecraft to absorb as well as the duties I would be expected to fulfil when I went to my husband’s house, those of running his household.

When I became the wife of Æthelred of Mercia, however, my knowledge of statecraft was unwelcome and unwanted.  My husband was, in fact, enraged by the idea that I had understanding of matters beyond what he saw as my proper wifely functions, and his discovery of it was the first occasion of my encountering the harsh side of his always erratic temper - though much worse was to follow soon after, as he made me his wife beyond any doubting.  Still, I had his household to run, and though I found it in some disarray, by the time he commanded me to accompany him to the capture of Lunden I had begun to bring it into some kind of order.

Now all that is at an end.  I have no books, no company, nothing but the slow progress of the hours.  I listen to the talk of the men outside, guarding me, but though I speak a little Danish I find their quick, guttural voices hard to follow.  Doubtless Father Beocca would counsel me to prayer, but though I pray a great deal, I find that speaking to God of my lord father and my lady mother bring their faces so clearly before me that it is all I can do not to weep at the trouble and anguish I have brought upon them by my capture.

Footsteps in the room outside bring me out of my half-doze, like a deer hearing the huntsman’s horn.  It may be news.  At any rate, it is a break in the endless tedium.

Next moment, however, I could wish the tedium unbroken.  It is Haesten who advances into my prison, and his first words leave me no doubt what he is doing here.

Erik’s name is my only amulet, but he brushes it aside, saying it is Erik who has sent him.  He lies, I know it, but his only interest is in taking his pleasure of me.  What harm will Erik’s wrath be when the deed is done with?  Mostlike there will be naught to do but shrug; these barbarians care nothing for a woman’s suffering, and shame will seal my mouth if ever I am delivered back into my husband’s care.

The memory of my husband stiffens my spine.  As I back towards the wall, my heel strikes the pail there.  Before I well know what I am doing, I pick it up and hurl its contents straight into Haesten’s face. 

His backward step is but the forerunner of a lunge of fury.  However, the second it takes gives me time to bring the pail to the side, and this time I swing it in an arc to take him full on the side of the head.  The blow sends him sprawling on my bed, and (Steapa would smile to see it!) I seize the long knife from his belt and raise it two-handed to plunge it into his defenceless back.

But my hands are seized, and Erik’s voice cries to his warrior Dagfinn to hold me.  And so Haesten lives on, but only to face Erik’s fury – the warlord’s fist crashes him twice to the floor, while I struggle in Dagfinn’s grip.

The world goes away from me a little, into a swirling and a dizziness in which I hear a beloved voice ring out: _“SHE – IS – PRECIOUS!”_

And then I find myself kneeling on the floor, and he and I are alone in the cell, and he is offering a hand to help me rise.

A second time I lay my hand in his.  His clasp is gentle, and releases me as soon as I am on my feet again, careful to make no claim on me.

His face is deeply troubled, his forehead lined with concern.  As I gaze upon it, something in my breast turns over, and I no longer see a barbarian and an enemy.  For good or ill, with my will or without it, my heart flies into the keeping of Erik Thurgilson, my captor and my father’s enemy.

“This should not have happened,” he says earnestly, and as I look into his wide eyes it seems that I look into his soul, and find it fair beyond imagining.  “And it will not happen again. My apologies.”  He ducks his head, with a look of shame, and turns to leave.  “My apologies,” he says again.

I cannot bear that he should leave thus, shamed for a deed that was none of his.  “It is not the first time a man has mistreated me,” I blurt out.

The words stop him in the doorway, and he takes a step back towards me.  “Who else?”

“Not here.” From somewhere I find the fragment of a smile.  “Before here.  Now I know what to do should it happen again – I will use my night bucket and a knife.”

He does not smile. “You should.”  He hesitates.  “You are precious, Lady.  Sleep well. 

“Safely.”

Then he leaves, barring the door behind him.  For an instant I feel his gaze upon me through the grille, and then he is gone.

Sleep will come but slowly to me tonight.


	5. Sihtric

We both hear the movement in almost the same second.

Rypere is quick on the uptake.  We exchange glances, and he goes on caring for the horses, while I go aside into the bushes, saying I need to take a piss.

Of course, I do no such thing.  I circle around the clearing where we have made our halt in the last of the evening light, fast and silent.  We can have no news of us passed to unfriendly ears, and I am ready to deal with the spy who seems to find us interesting.

He is not skilled at woodcraft.  The bushes rustle again as I steal closer, drawing my knife.  I see a shabby hooded robe, mended sandals.  The spy is poor, and he seems intent on our saddlebags, thrown down where we will sleep.  Maybe not so much a spy as a thief, then, but either way he will die for having found us.

Rypere calls out to me, his face in the direction where I am supposedly about my business.  It is enough to give our would-be thief the nerve to dart out a hand towards his target, and the small noise he makes in doing so is enough to let me close the last few feet and pounce.

My hand is across his face, drawing his head back to bare his throat.  The blade is already plunging when I hear the note of the stifled shriek of dread.

I cannot stop it altogether.  It slices sideways, shaves a nick of skin from her shoulder, but she should be thankful her life blood is not spurting across the clearing.

Rypere is already moving, racing to my support.  He skids to a halt in equal surprise.  “A _Saxon!_ ”

I push her over.  She is yelping in panic and I cover her mouth, showing her the knife; we cannot have her betraying us with her noise.  Even though this is Mercia, it is close enough to Danish territory to be dangerous.

She freezes.  Her hood falls back onto the leaves, and I see that her hair is half burned off, her scalp blistered.  “Where are you from?  What are you doing here?” I hiss.

Tears leak from her eyes.  “Beamfleot.”

My companion’s gaze meets mine, equally startled, equally hopeful.  “How long ago did you escape?”

“I don’t know.  A long time.  I got lost.  I’ve been trying to find my village...”

He goes to the saddlebags and pulls out the heel of a loaf.  She fairly snatches it from him and stuffs it into her mouth, so hungry that she starts to swallow even before she has chewed it.  That, more than anything else, tells me that she is telling the truth.  There are few settlements in these lands, and none will welcome an intruder.  I have known what it is to be so hungry one will eat moss in the effort to stay the pain in the belly.

“Beamfleot,” I press when she has choked down the bread and a swallow of ale from my flask.  “Was anything happening there when you left?”

“A feast.” She begins to cry again.  “They were celebrating ... they had captured a woman.  I don’t know who she was.”

_The Lady Æthelflaed._ What other capture would the Northmen celebrate so?

“Did you see her?”

“Not clearly.”

Rypere is soft-hearted.  He gives her another lump of bread, which goes the way of the first.  “Was she hurt?”

Her mouth is too full of bread to talk, but she shakes her head doubtfully.

“So what _did_ you see?” I demand impatiently.  Lord Uhtred will want every detail.

“She was riding with Lord Erik, and she walked into the stable.” That much she is sure of.  And that is much, in a world where up till now we have known nothing.

“How did you escape?” asks Rypere.

A brief, wondering smile restores some shadow of beauty to her marred face.  “Lord Erik freed me.”

“Erik Thurgilson?  Why should he do such a thing?  You were a slave, were you not?”

She nods, and explains that she was taken in a raid on her village.  She is not very sure what direction this lies in, but thinks it may be near Heorotfordscir.

Rypere and I glance at one another.  Small wonder she has been wandering so long.  Heorotfordscir is many miles to the northeast.  She could have wandered in the wilderness for days and starved to death if she had not come upon us.

As for why Lord Thurgilson was moved to kindness, she has no idea.  Nor have we, but for the present this is not an issue.  The important thing is that my lord Uhtred has this news as soon as may be.

I think quickly.  Not for worlds would I disobey his orders to me – I am his sworn man – but Rypere can join me in Beamfleot later.  In the meantime, I can spy out the ground.  Now I know where Lady Æthelflaed is being held, I am that much further forward in a place where the smallest sign of curiosity would be sufficient to have me killed out of hand.

“You must take her to Cookham,” I tell him rapidly.  “Our lord will wish to know everything she has to tell.”

“Not to Wintanceaster?” Alfred too will want tidings of his daughter.

Alfred, however, is not my oath-lord.  And the man who is can send or take the news as he wishes – such decisions are his to make, and I will not presume upon them.  “Cookham,” I repeat, clapping him on the shoulder to drive home the message.  “As fast as your horse will carry two.”

Travelling west, they should make reasonable time.  The further they go from here, the less caution they will need to use.  Whereas I will need to use the cunning and stealth of the snake to reach Beamfleot undetected.

Once there, I should be able to slip in safely enough.  There are many Saxon renegades in the service of the Danes, and with the numbers already there one more will pass without remark if he keeps his head low and his hands busy.  I am good with horses, and skilled help is always welcome around a stable – if not the one that holds the Lady Æthelflaed, surely there will be others not too far away.

“Go with this man in the morning,” I tell the woman.  “You will be safe.  You need to tell our lord what you have told us, and you will be cared for.”  I am confident the Lady Gisela will find some place of refuge for the runaway, and my lord will be generous for such news.

She looks at us dubiously.  “You will not sell me to the slavers?” she asks.

“I swear it.  Tell your tale honestly, and you will be rewarded.”

I am not sure she is convinced, but there are two of us, and she is lost and alone, her village many miles away across dangerous territory.  At least there is hope, this way.

If I were Rypere, I would marry her.  Her hair may grow again, and what do looks matter when a woman is lucky enough to be freed by a Danish warlord and found by Saxon warriors in search of information she carries?

The three of us settle down for the night.  She sleeps between us, and both of us go hungry so that she can have the last of the bread.

It seems Rypere is not the only fool.


	6. Aethelflaed

Dear Lord, how good it is to be clean.

I have a few comforts now.  I have even been given a bone comb, and I use it daily to bring some order to my hair, though I have no servant to braid this properly afterwards.  My overdress is laid aside with a few strands of pennyroyal in the folds for sweetening and to ward off fleas – not that there is much hope of that, for despite sleeping in my gown, nightly I am bitten by those in the bedclothes.

It is not so good that I must be accompanied to the river by such an escort of men.  Today, Haesten was not among them.  I was glad of that.

The first time, it was hard for me to remove my gown, knowing that those behind me were seeing my nakedness.  But when I turned my head to reproach Lord Thurgilson _(Erik...)_ , I found that all the men had already turned their backs.  Only the two women remained watchful.

Thus it was today.  I saw in this his respect, and thought how my father would marvel to find such a gentle warrior among the Northmen.

Food is brought in; my supper.  A bowl of hare stew (with a generous amount of meat in it), and an apple. 

The apple is upside-down on the platter.  Merely from a sense of the rightness of things, I set it on its base, and then I frown, looking more closely.

There are marks on its side. Or rather, one mark, on the rosy swell of it where the white flesh beneath stands out.  A shallow, angled V, with a long vertical tail dropping from one side of it.

Despite my sex, my father has seen to it that I am well educated.  The rune is crudely cut and clumsy, as though carved in haste, but I know what it is: the letter S.

I sit staring at the apple in the candlelight.  Of course it is a message, but what does it mean?  Who can it be from?

Its existence endangers both me and whoever sent it.  Hastily I take a bite that disposes of any trace of the rune, and chew it as quickly as I can, my mind racing.

I know from E... Lord Thurgilson that there has been no word yet from Wessex.  I am sure that if a messenger came, he would bring me news of it.  So someone is here in secret!

“Uhtred,” I breathe.  He has his letters (Father Beocca dinned them into him many years since, during his boyhood in Bebbanburg), but what could he mean by writing ‘S’?  The letter ‘U’ resembles a crooked doorway, and for all that Beocca laments his most reluctant pupil’s lack of either skill or interest, I cannot believe that even now he would make such an error. 

Of course, if the mark were discovered untimely, there must be those here who could recognise it.  I can well imagine the speed with which the connection would be made between the letter and the initial of one of my lord father’s most feared ealdormen – one, moreover, with the skills to pass unremarked among Danes who neither know him nor suspect his presence.

_–Steapa?_

I can well believe that my faithful Steapa would not hesitate to penetrate Beamfleot to rescue me, but he has not his letters.  Nor does he speak Danish, to my knowledge.  I cannot believe that even if he had some scheme to get him inside, he could endure for half a day without being discovered.  As desperate as my father must be to have me saved out of captivity, I cannot believe he would send Steapa on an errand that could only end in failure and death.

At that moment there is a soft double knock on the stable door.  Guiltily I pick up my horn spoon, and dip it into the stew, though the signal sets my pulse racing for quite a different reason.

“Lady Æthelflaed.” He walks into the stable as though hoping for a welcome, rather than as one entitled to enter whether I will or no, and gives me the shy smile that makes my heart turn over.

“Lord Thurgilson.” My words are formal, but I cannot help it: I smile back at him.

“I am sorry ... I am interrupting your meal.”

“No – I am glad of the company.  The days are long here.  Please, be seated.”

There is nowhere suitable for him to sit other than on the bed beside me.  It charms me that I am not the only one to blush.  Still, he brings forward a bale of hay and sits on that instead, at a courteous distance from me that does not presume, and gestures to me to continue eating.

“It must be lonely for you,” he admits.  “I would bring you books, but you will understand – this is not a place where books are readily found.”

“So I would imagine, my lord,” I reply ruefully, spooning stew into my mouth.

“You could read it, if I found one?”

“My father saw no reason why a daughter should not learn to read and write.”

He nods.  As certain that I am that he can do neither, I tactfully refrain from asking. 

“I will see what can be done,” he says.  “My brother is planning a raid into Cantwaraburg tomorrow.  I will tell one of my men to see if he can find books.”

I risk a grateful smile.  “That would be most kind.  Though I doubt if your brother would approve of it as plunder.”

He grins.  “It may require some ... care to keep them away from his attention.”

The stew is not finished, but it is a little heavily spiced for my taste.  I lay down the spoon and pick up the apple, taking care to conceal the fact that it has a piece bitten out of it already.

“I was wondering...”

“My lord?”

Another shy glance at me.  “It must be dull being cooped up in here all day long, and it is a beautiful warm clear night.  I was wondering if you would care to take a walk?  I promise you no harm will come to you.”

“That would be _wonderful!_ ” I spring to my feet, the apple forgotten in my hand.  To feel the wind, and see the sky, after all these days of confinement in this stifling stable!

It seems we can do little other than smile at one another.  He leads me from the stable, and I hear him bid his men quietly to follow us at a distance, within hail if needed.

“Does your lord brother approve of this expedition?” I tease as we walk towards the gateway.

“Let us say that my brother does not _dis_ approve.  Mainly because he has retired early for the night with .... company.”

“And therefore cannot disapprove of what he does not know.”

His eyes sparkle with delight.  “I believe I did forget to ask his permission.”

There are not many folk about.  Near the gate there is another stable-block, and at that moment a slight, dark groom leads out a fine grey horse.  The mare is skittish, but he calms her with a word, his hand running gently down her delicate nose.

Lord Thurgilson hears my indrawn breath.  “You like her?”

“She is beautiful.  May I give her some of my apple?”

“Certainly.  I wish I could allow you to ride her, but you will understand – that might be presuming on my brother’s amiability a little too far.”

We stroll over to the mare, which the groom has turned to walk towards the blacksmith’s.  Seeing us come towards him, he pulls her to a halt, bowing.

I break a piece from my apple and hold it out to her on the flat of my palm.  She takes it daintily, with the manners of a fine lady used to spoiling and kindness.

“I cannot see you riding out to war on such a beast, my Lord,” I say, laughing.  “She is far too fine for that.”

The groom stands holding the bridle, his head respectfully lowered in the presence of his betters.  But as Erik moves to the right to study the mare, he looks up for just half a second and his gaze meets mine directly beneath the angle of the horse’s head and throat.

I have seen him before.  He is one of Uhtred’s most trusted men.  His presence here in Beamfleot cannot be a coincidence – it cannot!

His name does not come readily to my mind; my lady mother would take it very ill for me to become familiar with the followers of a man she regards with such distrust, though maybe it will come to me when I have quietness to think.  But I permit myself the tiniest nod of acknowledgement, at which he bows his head again and becomes busy with setting to rights some small imperfection in the silken fall of the horse’s mane.

“No, you are right.” Erik pats the beast’s withers.  “This one was bred for beauty and speed, not endurance.  She would make a most unsuitable mount for a warrior of a raiding party, who must ride long distances without rest.”

At a guess, the mare is another prize of war, and will be sold for a high price – just as I myself will be.  I have a sudden rush of fellow-feeling for her, and put up my hand to fondle the pricked ears, delicate as flower petals.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

He gives me a thoughtful look, and then with a last pat leaves the horse to be taken wherever it should and walks with me towards the gate.

Outside, the landscape opens up suddenly before my eyes.  Almost opposite us the moon is afloat in an inky sky, its light shining coolly on the Temes and the land of Cent beyond it.  The moored ships are toys of silver, the whole world is turned to silver, and the stars that peep between the pale clouds are so clear it almost seems as though one might put up one’s hand and touch one of them as easily as I touched the white mare’s ears.

“It’s so beautiful,” I breathe.

“It is.” He gazes out across the landscape, his expression one almost of wonder, as though he has never truly looked at it before.  In all the horror tales of Vikings, none has ever told that they have any feeling for beauty other than as some article of plunder, valued only for its worth rather than itself.

“Those trees spoil the view a little – shall we walk further?”

In truth I will not be sorry to leave Beamfleot behind us, and so with his men trailing us at a respectful distance we walk further down the hill.

A little patch of grass among the low bushes seems to offer us sanctuary, and we sit down there.  The day has been hot, and the ground is dry.  From the heathland around us rise the strange calls of nightjar, and an owl flutes from far off.  Our escort are presumably nearby, but do not intrude on our little moment of privacy; it would be easy to believe that we are alone, the silver world spread out especially for our wonder.

Neither of us speak for a little while.  We are both enjoying the quiet and the beauty of the night.

Finally, Erik breaks the silence.  “I thought you’d like to breathe the night’s air.”

“Thank you.” I steal a glance at him.  He is impossibly attractive.

“I was born on a night of a whole moon,” he continues.  “My father wanted to call me Mani, after the moon god.  But Mani is chased each night across the sky by Hati the Wolf. My mother did not want me to be chased by wolves.”  He smiles a little, and then sobers and looks at me.  “I saw the moon, the clear sky, and I wanted to share it.”

“I’m glad you thought of me.”  _My lord, Erik, I think of you almost every moment.  My heart takes wing at the sound of your voice._

“It was either share it with you or with my brother.”  We both laugh at the thought of Sigefrid appreciating the silver moon and the toy silver ships on the silver Temes.  “The choice was difficult, I admit!”

But his laughter dies, and when he turns towards me again the breath stops in my throat at the expression on his face.  “I have never seen a face like this before,” he says, low-voiced.  “Now I see it even when I close my eyes.

“Your husband is a fortunate man.”

Irony.  Bitterness chokes me at the thought of how little Æthelred thinks of his good fortune in having me to wife.  I am a brood mare for his heirs, no more.  “My husband does not see me.”

A tiny pause. “Then he is blind or stupid.”

“He is not blind.”

“And he is not gentle, I would guess.

“Is he the one who mistreats you?”

I am thankful for the silver moonlight that hides the hue of shame in my face, but still I meet his eyes.  “He is not the man I would choose to be with.”

His fingers touch my face, so gently.  They fire my skin where they come to rest against it.

The bards sing of love.  They know not of what they sing....

His kisses are tenderness itself.  I feel myself opening to him like a flower to the sun, under the silver moon, which will keep our secret.

His hands rouse me to desire.  His gaze upon me is reverent almost to awe; he worships me with his lips.

And there is no pain, only joy and the terror of bliss.  _Erik, Erik my love...._

Afterwards: 

“I cannot bear to give you up....”


	7. Uhtred

We set out from Cookham the day after Rypere brought the woman from Beamfleot to me.

In truth, we should probably have gone straight to Wintanceaster to King Alfred with the news, but to my mind that would have involved days wasted in talk – something of which there is always more than enough when my lord the King is involved.  I performed my duty in that respect by sending Eldrida (that was the woman’s name) to him instead, under escort, with a message telling of my plans: to travel towards Beamfleot.

By now, Sihtric is presumably inside the fortress.  At a guess, he has discovered exactly where Æthelflaed is being held, and with luck will have identified any possible weaknesses in her captivity that we may be able to exploit.  I allowed Rypere half the night to eat and rest before giving him a change of horses and sending him back to Beamfleot, this time to join Sihtric inside it as originally planned.  He can get Sihtric’s news and bring it out to me – I will be waiting with the others as close as we dare, ready to act when and if we get the chance. 

Of course, there is also the possibility that Alfred will receive a formal declaration from the Thurgilsons that they are holding his daughter hostage, and that will possibly mean that he and his pious queen will find it necessary to overcome their distaste for my pagan company.  Pagan or no, I can deal with Danes.  The alternative will be to entrust negotiations to my fool of a cousin Æthelred, and the most likely outcome of that would be his head speared on a pike over Beamfleot’s gate and Æthelflaed whored around every town and village in the Danelaw. I am absolutely certain that Alfred knows that every bit as well as I do, and the news that his son-in-law virtually made the Danes a gift of his beloved daughter in the first place will not have improved his opinion of him.

(Not that I would shed many tears to see Æthelred’s head on a pike – I have always thought him a prideful fool over-reliant on that snake Aldhelm – but Æthelflaed’s fate is a different thing.)

But in the meantime there is a window of opportunity. If Alfred wants me, I have made sure he knows where to find me.

Rypere has moved fast.  We have hardly been in position at the appointed place for a day before Sihtric appears.

And Sihtric has news.  News of such importance that he feels able to entrust it only to me over a snatched meal.

“Lovers?” I keep my voice down; these are matters of state, and I am glad he has had the intelligence to make sure that no-one else has heard.  “Are you sure?”

He looks uncomfortable.  “She was not unwilling.”

This, of course, introduces a whole new aspect to the affair.  It would not have surprised me if Æthelflaed had been raped; though her safety as a hostage is of course important, it would not have been thought seriously compromised by a little humping, especially if someone of importance took a fancy to her.  What I find significant is that it is the younger of the Thurgilsons who has become involved – and possibly this involvement extends further than just his cock.

I have met Erik, and though of course we are enemies, I respect and even like him.  If events had fallen out differently, we would have been brothers in arms.  He is intelligent and, for a Dane, honourable – without his cleverness his older brother Sigefrid would present far less of a threat to us.  His trick with the so-called ‘dead man’ tempting me with the offer of the kingship of Mercia came perilously close to success; what warrior worth the name would turn down the promise of a kingdom without soul-searching?

Fortunately for Alfred, and unfortunately for Erik, I have a keen nose for a pit-trap.  Still, my very foot had been on the branches before I discovered beyond doubt that dead men do not rise and that a very much alive man had proffered the one piece of bait that would draw me in.

His success with Æthelflaed is hardly surprising either.  Married as she is to that pig’s turd of a cousin of mine, she would be very vulnerable to a man who knows how to charm – and whatever else he is, Erik Thurgilson can be charming.  I know the value of gossip, and gossip says that Æthelred is a rough and selfish lover where women are concerned.  Were he not such a devout Christian (at least in name) I might wonder at his constant closeness with Aldhelm, but it seems to me that the Christian god frowns on most things that give pleasure to life so I imagine that as it is with ours, love between a man and another man would also be frowned upon.  If Beocca were here I would ask him about it, if only for the joy of seeing him turn as red as a sunset and gobble with embarrassed disgust.

It is not only for his entertainment value, though, that Beocca’s presence would be useful.  As a clerk, he can read and write with ease; and though I can do both if I must, it is certainly not with ease – and nor do I make a habit of carrying writing implements around with me.

It is unlikely in the extreme that Sihtric would ever be able to contrive speech with Æthelflaed; so valuable a captive will be guarded well, at every moment.  But it seems that he has been able to make contact with her.  In a moment’s idleness he apparently once asked Father Pyrlig to teach him how to write the letters of his name – an achievement for which he has been twitted ever since – and he is confident that not only was Æthelflaed looking for a familiar face when she emerged from the stable with Lord Eric, but that she recognised him when he contrived a meeting.  So she knows he is there, and she is a highly intelligent young woman.  It may even be that if we can get writing implements to her she may be able to use him as a messenger.

This, however, is only a possibility for the present.  And it is still to be seen how her involvement with Erik Thurgilson will change the situation.  She may have been willing, but who can say how he felt?  I would wager Serpent-Breath that it was his cunning that contrived her capture.  Now that he has had her, will that change anything?  Love does strange things to a man, and Æthelflaed is a rare woman, like my Gisela – as intelligent as she is beautiful.

Still, this is the first hint of a weakness in the hitherto impregnable front that Beamfleot presents to the world.  I must be on the alert for a way to take advantage of it if the chance offers.

It seems that Sihtric has found himself a place in the care of the horses there.  With that, he should be safe enough to wait a little longer – at least until we hear from Wintanceaster.

He has waited patiently, giving me time to think the thing out.  Doubtless he knows that matters hang upon a dozen threads of fate, spun both by men and by the Norns, and each linked as intricately as those of a spider-web hung on a gorse bush.  For by no means the first time, I am glad that I accepted his service; Finan has speculated before now that Sihtric’s mother came of what he called the _Old Blood_ , from the little dark people who ruled Britain before even the Celts came, but whatever the truth of that he has skill, cunning and courage. Those may yet serve me well in the sticky strands of this spider-web in which we find ourselves.

“Go back into Beamfleot,” I tell him quietly.  “Keep watch.  If you can contrive a chance to speak with the Lady Æthelflaed, do so – but do not endanger yourself.

“We will wait here another five-day.  If anything changes, send Rypere to me.  After that, unless I have news, I will return to Wintanceaster and consult with the king.”

He slants me a look.

“I will tell him his daughter is safe in Beamfleot, and that she knows you are there at need,” I answer his unspoken question.  Unless circumstances warrant it, Alfred certainly does not need to hear that his daughter is spreading her thighs willingly for one of his deadliest enemies.

That information may yet be of immense importance.  But whether it will work for our weal or our bane, only the Norns know.

_Wyrd bið ful aræd._


	8. Erik

Now, more than ever before in my life, I must be careful.  And yet for the first time my heart and my mind are at war, and all courses are beset with danger; not only for me – that I can bear – but for one who is now dearer to me than my heart’s blood.

The sensible course, the _obvious_ course, would be to leave our plans to work out as I first conceived them.  Alfred will raise the ransom, the ransom will be paid, Æthelflaed will be handed over (that, at least, I can make sure of, the Norns permitting), Mercia and Wessex will fall, and when her husband and her father are either in exile or in the ground, she will be a widow and I will marry her.  Sigefrid will be happy, we will both be rich, and I will have Æthelflaed without anyone ever being the wiser.

But that means handing her back to the husband who does not see her – who does not treat her as a husband should treat the wife he loves.  She has said little, but I have seen the fading marks of bruises on her slender body; and though I know that the fate of kingdoms rests on my will and hers to endure, the thought of handing her over to be beaten again is more than I can bear.

And what if this fine husband of hers – whom I despise without ever setting eyes on him – should decide that death would be a better alternative for his wife than being left a widow to be despoiled by the evil Northmen?  I have seen many women killed by their menfolk rather than be left to be taken alive, and most are thankful for it, if their faces are any token.  If Æthelflaed should plead to be spared, would her husband heed her, leave her living to take the chances of war, to endure capture a second time?  Or would he think her unhinged by fear, and determine that what was to be reft from him, no other man should have, Northman or no?

She would be safe if she fell into our hands.  I would see to that.  If we get the ransom, make the conquest, I am sure I can get Sigefrid to agree that she should become my property; doubtless it would amuse him mightily.  For her sake, I would even make shift to find some Christian priest willing to mumble whatever spells they require to make her my wife – though this would have to be done secretly, still it is a thing women value, and I would neglect nothing that would make Æthelflaed feel happy and secure.

But would her husband leave her living?  Could he even be such a man as could be approached with the offer that she would have a protector who would keep her safe and honoured even after Mercia and Wessex had fallen?

I stare, scowling, into the bottom of my drinking-horn as yet again I tell over the chances.  A man who beats his wife, who sees not her beauty, who has not the wit to value her as she should be valued.  Still worse, a man who brings his wife into enemy territory, who exposes her to such danger as has brought Æthelflaed here to Beamfleot!  And this is the man whom I am to trust with her safety, upon whose greatness of spirit her survival would have to rest!

_I cannot take the risk._

“What, moping again, Little Brother?” Sigefrid’s elbow digs into my side, jerking me rudely from my reverie.  “You need to hump a different woman if this one does nothing but put a frown on your face!”

“She complains,” I grumble.  It sets a knife in my breast to speak so of Æthelflaed, but our only hope of safety lies in convincing him that she is not worth investigating for himself.  “All the time, she complains and asks when the ransom will be paid.  And she cries a lot when I hump her.  She gives me a headache.”

“Is she good to look at, naked?” he asks lasciviously, not quite distracted from his interest.

I shrug, as though it is hardly worth describing.  “Bony. Small tits.”

That suffices for the present.  Sigefrid likes his women round of breast and backside, and the thought of jutting hip-bones offering him but comfortless lying while he takes his pleasure does not appeal.

Still, I know that I am under observation.  Haesten for one is vigilant, his eyes as unblinking as an adder’s.  He lusts after Æthelflaed on his own account and will not have forgiven me for intervening when he tried to ravish her.  Before that day he was obedient.  Now he is sullen and watchful, alert – I have no doubt – for an occasion when he can betray me.

I could have him killed, but Sigefrid likes him, and although I think I have succeeded in allaying his suspicions for now, Haesten’s untimely death would be dangerous.  So for now I endure him, and play the part of a cat toying with a bird, half bored and half amused by its suffering. That alone will leave me free to continue to visit Æthelflaed, and so far it has succeeded.

“Have we sent to her husband yet?” I ask abruptly.  “We need the ransom paid before the winter sets in, or the seas will be closed till the spring.”

“Yesterday.” My brother rips the leg from a roast fowl, and tears the flesh from it greedily with his white teeth.  “I thought it a kindness to put them out of their misery.”

“So we may expect an emissary shortly to talk terms.”

“Their emissary will _hear_ terms – _our_ terms!” he retorts, flinging the bone to the floor, where a pack of hounds begin fighting over it.  “They will pay what I demand, or by Thor’s Hammer I’ll whore her from Northumbria to Cent and raise the money that way.  Think how many men would pay good silver to hump a king’s daughter!”  He turns to face me and winks.  “I may even start charging you, for a beginning!”

“You could try, Big Brother,” I drawl, setting my drinking horn back in its stand.  “Though I think the fact that it was my idea in the first place that brought her here might stand me for a few days more.”

All of Sigefrid’s reactions are large and impulsive.  He stares at me for a moment, then he guffaws and slaps me on the back, and so the moment passes.  Haesten, who has been watching hopefully, turns back to his platter and begins eating again, but I know that he is within earshot and that he will go on listening.  And that when I am not present he will drip little drops of poison into Sigefrid’s ear regarding anything he hears and can turn to account.

It is clearly unsafe to leave the feast early.  But I have never felt so bored and restless, and it is enough to make my head ache in truth to have to keep up the façade of enjoyment for the next few hours.

But needs must, and finally the feast winds to an end.  The moon has set long since by the time I leave the hall, supporting a reeling Sigefrid.  My brother can drink a bellyful of ale, but tonight he has surpassed himself, urged on by the toasts of what we may accomplish when the ransom is paid.  To all eyes I have matched him drink for drink, but I have been careful to sip rather than swig, and when chance offered I surreptitiously poured some of it into the rushes.

I see him into his house and let him fall into his bed, where he lies inert, snoring like a grampus.  At a guess he will lie abed late tomorrow, and rise with a sore head and a foul temper.

I should go to my own bed, but I am drawn to the stable whether I will or no.  If only to see her and talk with her, I must go.  There is no help for it.

She is asleep.  How defenceless she looks.

I will not disturb her.  I cross the stable with aching care, and bend only to brush my lips across the top of her head; but still she wakens.  Her eyes open, and her sleepy smile is marvellous to behold.  “Erik,” she whispers.  “Is there news?”

“Nothing.  Go to sleep, beloved.”

“No – hold me.”  She reaches up insistent arms, and how can I resist?

Afterwards, she lies on my breast.  She is so slight in my arms, I can only marvel at the strength contained in such a frail vessel.

“I want to stay here forever,” she whispers.

I kiss her hair.  I too want her to stay here forever.  But how can it be contrived?  I am one man alone against a fortress of others who have been promised a share in a princess’s ransom.

“My brother has sent word to your father that you are here,” I murmur regretfully.  “Unless our fortunes change, my love, we must make the most of what we have left.”

Her eyes widen.  “How long?”

I shrug.  That will depend on how long it takes Alfred to decide who to send as emissary.  At a guess, he will want negotiations opened with all speed; and above all, he will want word of his daughter’s safety.  “A few days, perhaps.”

The sight of her despair hurts me more than I would have believed possible.  “Is there no way we can prevent it?”

I kiss her again.  “If there is a chance, believe me, Æthelflaed, I will take it, but I think I am already under suspicion.  If I am to protect you, I must go on seeming to act a part, so that I stay free.  I am but one man against hundreds, and I must wait and hope for an opportunity to present itself.”

She looks at me then, biting her lip; it is a trick she has.  For what seems like a long time, she says nothing.  Then, at last: 

“Can I trust you?”


	9. Sihtric

It is quiet in the stables.  As it is every morning, for the Northmen enjoy their feasting and with the Lady Æthelflaed their prisoner they have every reason to feel pleased with themselves.

I go about my work as I always do, feeding and grooming the horses.  I pay special attention to the white mare, for she is a beauty, and as sweet-tempered as she is beautiful.  No wonder the Lady was attracted to her; they are much alike.

Nobody has named the mare yet, or at least if they have, this is not something a mere groom needs to know.  In my mind I call her Seagull, because she is as white as the gulls that drifted off the coast of Northumbria where I was born.  At a guess they will sell her, or maybe they will keep her for breeding – though the Northmen favour heavier horses than this, and her bright beauty would be wasted on them.

She is growing used to my ways.  As soon as I have her forelock combed she begins questing for the crust of bread I have brought for her in the pocket of my tunic.

I know that I am now no longer alone in the stables, but I do not look around; men come and go on one errand or another, and busy grooms are invisible.  I concentrate on feeding Seagull the bread and stroking her nose, which is slender and delicate.

So the voice that speaks directly behind me is worse than startling.  “Your name is Sihtric.”

I try not to turn too quickly, the reaction of a man with something to hide, while I compose my face into a look of surprised innocence.

For as long as it takes to turn and face him, I hold on to hope that I am mistaken in who this is.  But of course I am not.  Of all the men who could have discovered my identity here in Beamfleot, I can imagine none more dangerous than one of the Thurgilson brothers themselves.

It is the younger one, Erik.  Also – I have learned, through my usual habit of keeping my ears open and my mouth shut – the clever one.

I am taken aback to find that he has no armed men behind him.  Though that in itself will not save me, for he has a sword and a seax at his belt, and I have nothing more than the short knife all men wear.  If we fight, he will win and I will die.

“It is, Lord,” I say, bowing my head deferentially as though I were not speaking to a deadly enemy.  “How can I be of service?”

He glances around, but apart from the two of us the stables are deserted.  Still, he lowers his voice.  Close to, his blue eyes are very shrewd; this will not be an easy man to lie to.  “Your name is Sihtric, and you serve Uhtred of Wessex.”

My voice catches for an instant in my throat, but I force speech out.  “Who has told you this, my Lord?”

“One whom both your lord and I wish brought safely out of Beamfleot,” he answers, very softly.  Then, with another glance around, he brings out a piece of paper folded small and hands it to me.  “Get that to him as soon as you can and bring me the answer.”

It would surely be wise, now that my identity has been uncovered, for me to make my escape and ride for Wintanceaster – even Cookham would be dangerous, betraying where my lord’s family lives.  If I ride to where I know my lord is waiting, I could be followed, however careful I am.  It would not be beyond this man’s cleverness to use this method of finding out where he is and setting an ambush to take him.  So I hesitate.

“The lady says that your lord trusts you,” he goes on, still more softly.  “If that writing is found, it will go badly for all of us.  So I am trusting you by putting it in your hand.”

I cannot read, of course, though I am secretly proud that I know how to write my name – most of the other warriors cannot do even that.  So I cannot read the message to know what it contains, and I have only my own instinct to guide me in what I ought to do.

“I will, my Lord.”

He nods, and leaves without more words; and I am left, with the folded paper in my hand and fear in my heart.

*               *               *

Lord Uhtred is not expecting to see me again so soon.  “Trouble?” he asks, rising.

“A message, Lord.” I drop from my tired horse and hand him the paper.

I have been as careful as I can be to make sure I am not followed.  Of course it has cost me in time, and speed is surely vital, but secrecy is more important and I am as certain as I can be that no-one has taken any interest in either my departure or my destination.

The others gather around as my lord reads the message.  We are lucky that he knows how to read, though the cleft between his brows suggests it is not easy to decipher.  I looked at the paper once, during my journey from Beamfleot.  As I had expected, I was unable to do more than make out a letter here and there, but the back of the paper was interesting.  To judge by the brightly-coloured picture there, the message has been written on a page torn from one of the Christians’ holy books; part of the picture is missing, but there is a strange man in it, with huge wings like those of a swan, and he looks very angry.  I make a note to ask Finan about the winged man and why he might be so very angry if he is in a holy book.  You would think he would be pleased.  But then the Christians’ god seems to be angry about everything that makes people happy, so perhaps this is a picture of their god finding someone being happy.  Or perhaps this is a sign that I should not look at a message not intended for me, and the Christians’ god will not be pleased about that either.

It is not a comfortable thought.  Secretly I make the sign of the horns to avert evil.

My lord reads through the message several times, though I think it is more to give himself time to consider more than to get the sense of it.  Then, while we all wait, he stares back in the direction from which I have ridden – almost as though listening to something, or remembering.  Then he comes to a decision.  “Go back and say the answer is yes.”

It is not my place to ask _the answer to what_ , though I see Finan’s look.  As far as I know he cannot read either, but he knows as well as I do that private messages from Beamfleot are not in the expected order of things.  As I mount my horse again, I am quite sure that Finan will be almost as unhappy as the Christians’ god if Lord Uhtred is going to take risks; but then my lord knows as well as we all do what the cost will be if Lady Æthelflaed is ransomed, and so if Lord Erik Thurgilson has decided that he requires trustworthy help to arrange an escape, then my lord will be the man to whom he will turn.  The Norns have set bonds between these two, tested in a rain-drenched clearing when my lord held a sword to Sigefrid’s throat and Erik gave his word to save his brother’s life.

That word was kept, though there was none to compel its keeping.  And now I reflect as I turn and ride back towards Beamfleot that I have been the means of drawing them together again, for good or ill.

I am only a bastard, of small account in the order of things save for my lord’s acceptance.  But the shadow of wings crosses me, so that I make the sign against evil again; in the hands of these two men may lie the survival of the last kingdom.


	10. Uhtred

I am well aware as we ride cautiously towards the Temes that there is a silent cloud of doubt and disapproval at my back.

I am also well aware that I am taking a huge risk.  We are now well within Danish territory, and move only between twilight and sun-up.  Twice we have had to lie low, avoiding patrols, and for all that I have a reputation for recklessness, in reality I dislike taking risks without good reason.

Is the word of an enemy a good reason?

I have confided only in Finan.  He jutted his lip doubtfully, seeing as quickly as I had done the very real possibility that this could be another of the Thurgilsons’ traps.  The success of the last is testament to how well they are laid, and we could well be riding into another.

“He’s a cunnin’ bastard, so he is,” he murmured.  “We already know that.  This could be his way of gettin’ his hands on you as well as on the Lady Æthelflaed.”

“He would be a fool if he thought Alfred would pay a penny to ransom me,” I responded with a grin, keeping to myself the information that Erik has had his hands on Æthelflaed in more than one way.  “We must assume he is not that big a fool!”

Finan looked at me sternly for my levity.  “His big brother’s missin’ a hand thanks to you.  I’m guessin’ Sigefrid would sleep better o’nights for havin’ your hide instead of a bearskin on his floor!”

I passed over it with a jest then, but in my heart I know he is right.  I also know that I am the man Alfred will need to take command of the negotiations for the ransom (though at a guess he will take time to swallow that unpalatable truth), and that to do that I must stay alive and free.  So at a guess, my lord king would approve even less of my actions now than my warriors do, and they are perplexed and worried enough.

I am not familiar with this area, but Caedmon of my warband grew up not far from here and knows it well enough to give me directions.  In the first thin light of dawn we ride down a shallow valley towards the gleam of the Temes, and up ahead on my right hand I see a ruined tower clinging to a ledge.

We change course and head for the higher ground, though taking care to stay below the skyline.  Each of us now rides with hand on sword-hilt, though the sound of birdsong suggests that there has been quiet here for some time.

There is no noise as we approach the tower.  Caedmon says that it was a lookout tower, built by the Romans as part of the defences against the Saxons, and there is irony in that; now it is the Saxons who are beaten back by an invader from the east, and now west will meet east here in the attempt to preserve an already precarious balance.

The walls are crumbling.  Jackdaws nest in the ruins.

I pull my horse to a halt some twenty cubits short of the doorway, where an oaken door hangs crazily slantwise on one hinge.  There is space within for a number of warriors, and for the sake of secrecy I have brought only a few men with me.

For the space of maybe five breaths there is silence, and then a lone figure steps into the doorway.

He unfastens his sword belt and lays it down, and then he steps over the door and walks unarmed towards us.

“Bejeezus, couldn’t we exchange _him_ for the Lady Æthelflaed?” Finan mutters in my ear.

“Maybe we could.”  I draw Serpent-Breath and Wasp-Sting and pass them over to him, and then slide from my horse.

Even the morning air seems to be holding its breath; this is the moment at which an ambush would break forth.  But the pale serenity of the world endures, and Erik Thurgilson and I walk towards one another, his eyes as watchful as mine must be.

We come to a halt, a few feet apart.  “You asked for a meeting,” I state, my voice level.

For a moment, he does not quite seem to know how to start.  Then, in a rush, “I need your help, Uhtred.  In a matter that will benefit Wessex.”

I put my hands on my hips, tilting my head a little incredulously.  “Since when has a Thurgilson had any interest in the welfare of Wessex?”

I can make an excellent guess, of course, but I want to know how honest he is prepared to be.

He looks hunted, haunted.  “I have my reasons.”

“Then you must tell me what they are, and I will lay them before my lord the king, and perhaps we will find common cause.”

“No! – This must be between you and me, Uhtred.  If Alfred learns of it, my help will be at an end.”

This all ties in with what I have learned from Sihtric, but I am not going to let him know that.  “I presume that this meeting _is_ to do with Æthelflaed,” I say, and he nods; it is obvious, after all.  “Alfred is her father,” I continue, watching him narrowly.  “It is he who will be burdened with the worst of the ransom payment.  Compared to Mercia, Wessex is wealthy.  Her husband Æthelred will be able to raise relatively little – nor do I imagine he will do more than he needs, since he cares for her so little.”

As I had expected, the mention of Æthelred acts on him like a spur to a high-strung horse.  He takes one step forward, his hand dropping instinctively to where the hilt of his sword would be if he was still wearing it.  “If she is restored to her father, she is restored to her husband,” he says in a vicious hiss.  “To a man who misuses her, who beats her!  You think I will free her for that?”

“Better to be beaten by a husband than whored from the Temes to the Humber by the Danes,” I reply drily.  “And I think your brother will have something to say regarding handing her to anyone without a ransom.”

His face twists.  In it I see sadness, and anger, and resolution.  “I will not have her restored to her husband, Uhtred – with a ransom or without it.”

“You are in love with her.”

He nods.  “She is the moon of my eyes,” he says, low-voiced.  “I cannot live without her, Uhtred.  She is my madness, my goddess.”

How can I not have sympathy for him?  I have known that feeling.  It struck me like a spear in the breast when I laid eyes on Gisela.

I close the distance between us and lay a hand on his shoulder.  “This is a dream, Erik, and you know it,” I tell him earnestly.  “If she manages to escape, then every man will hunt her.  Sigefrid will hunt her, Alfred will hunt her, Æthelred will hunt her.  She has no money, and nowhere to go.”

“Dunholm.”  His answer is instant, low and fierce; he and Æthelflaed have thought of this.  “Your brother Ragnar rules there. He would give us refuge.”

I pause.  It is not as mad an idea as it sounds on the surface.  Secure in Dunholm, Ragnar has little cause to fear either Alfred’s wrath or Æthelred’s; and Sigefrid has good cause to know that my brother would make a bad enemy.  The tale of Kjartan’s death has passed into legend, and grows with every telling.

Moreover, Northumbria is a vast land, heavily forested in places, and sparsely populated.  It has many secret valleys where a man could carve out a good living for himself and a wife and family, if he were willing to lose his identity and exchange a life of raiding for one of hard work and husbandry.

But between Beamfleot and Dunholm lie many long miles, and every one of them would hold danger for the runaway daughter of King Alfred and her lover.

“There is only one way this would have a chance of succeeding,” I say at last.  “Both Sigefrid and Alfred would have to be convinced that both of you were dead.”

It does not surprise him; he is, after all, no fool, though love makes fools of us all.  But my ready compliance does surprise him, and he looks at me searchingly.  “You have given your oath to Alfred.”

Indeed I have, but though I know that the king loves his daughter greatly and would grieve for her all his days if he thought her dead, it is the honour of Wessex that will drive him to raise the ransom.  He will not bear the thought of a Princess of Wessex being whored among the barbarians, and will pay whatever is demanded to avert that stain from the history of his royal house.

A Princess of Wessex dead in the attempt to escape from the barbarians, however, would be a very different thing.  True, it would end the bond of marriage between Wessex and Mercia, but my cousin Æthelred is as much a realist as he is a coward; he has little chance of survival without Alfred’s support.  Æthelflaed dead thus would be a martyr, a shame to the Danes and a rallying cry to the Saxons, and a boon to the cause of Wessex as she would never be alive.

“I will be answerable for my oath before the gods,” I reply.  “What of yours to your brother?”

It pains him.  I can see that.  But love at this depth transcends any oath, and he only shakes his head.  “I will account to him for it in Valhalla.”

 _Wyrd bið ful aræd._ It is the maxim upon which I have lived my life.  Fate plays the music, and men must dance to it as best they can.

I sigh.  Love makes us all mad, and Erik’s madness is infectious; and enemy or no, I like him.  Moreover, if we can somehow achieve this, many lives will be spared.  True, Alfred and his queen will be grieved by a lie (I doubt my cousin will grieve overmuch or for long), but I feel fondness for Æthelflaed whom I have watched grow from girlhood to womanhood.  If I can somehow grant her life with her handsome Dane, that at least will be a kindness in a world where so many of my actions are governed by harsh necessity.

“It will be dangerous,” I say at last.

“ _Life_ is dangerous,” he answers immediately.  “And we would rather die together in the attempt than leave it unmade.”

“My Lord Thurgilson, I fear your wits have left you altogether.  So let us sit and think of a way to find them again.”

He glances at me, and the smile that breaks out on his face reveals why young Æthelflaed has fallen in love with him.  I will have to make sure that I never take Gisela to Northumbria, or I will have to play the part of a jealous husband.

He is too much of a realist to thank me.  That can wait till we have found his wits and he has made his escape with them safely.  Nevertheless, he clasps my arm gratefully, and we sit down in the heather to begin plotting the salvation of Wessex.

_Wyrd bið ful aræd._


	11. Erik

The preparations have been made.

The gods are on our side, I think, for this morning we received a request from King Alfred to guarantee the safety of his emissary.  Though Sigefrid made play of being gracious (there is a form to these things, after all), inwardly he fumed at the delay, and tonight his temper is erratic.  He is as ready to take offence as to be amused, and even I who know him so well would be hard pressed to know which side of the coin would fall uppermost at any given toss.  Those with greater reason to fear him give him a wide berth, and the serving girls keep his cup filled with the alacrity of fear as his mood swings between jubilation and impatience.

“It seems the ransom will soon be yours, my lord,” observes Haesten, who is as ever close at Sigefrid’s ear. “And the girl restored to her loving husband.”

The remark is, of course, a sword with two edges.  It will please my brother and annoy me, and this is the kind of weapon Haesten enjoys employing when he thinks he is safe.

In his present humour, Sigefrid also finds the thought of my deprivation amusing.  “The loving husband may get two for the price of one, if you’ve got her in pup!” he guffaws at me.  “That would be something for the proud lord of Mercia, to get back his wife with a swelling belly on her and a Danish bastard in it!”

I force a grin and a shrug.  “I’ve tried hard enough.  You never know!”

“He’d put her away, I should think.  Into one of those places where they keep the barren Christian women, a nunnery don’t they call it?  Or just have the baby killed as soon as it’s out of her, and give out it was stillborn.” Haesten’s eyes are as cold and hard as pebbles on a beach at the edge of the North Sea, though a small, spiteful smile curves his mouth.  “I suppose it depends on whether he fancies spending the rest of his life slipping into something that’s had a Viking cock up it.”

“Let’s hope for the lady’s sake his cock’s big enough to help her forget, eh, Little Brother?” One of the serving-girls tiptoes closer to refill his drinking-horn, but even half drunk Sigefrid is too fast for her.  He seizes her by the wrist, drags her across his lap and thrusts her towards me so that her gown gapes open.  “There’s a ripe pair of tits for you, soon forget the Saxon wench when you have your hands around those!”

I have had women before.  I have to let him think me compliant, ready to be consoled, easy to distract with an available body.  I pull the girl across me and let my hands roam across her.  Her copper-coloured hair is tangled and matted.  She is dirty, and would probably shrink in horror from the mere idea of bathing in a river; she smells of old sweat and worse, and her excited laugh is at the prospect of a copper coin if she pleases me.

She is not Æthelflaed.

“Afterwards.” I push her off. “Make sure you’re available.  If someone else has you, tell them to make it quick.”

She bobs her head, pleased, and goes off to refill her jug and carry on serving ale.

Tension makes time drag.  A singer stands up to declaim verses, but tonight nobody is in the mood to listen and he is soon howled down.  A cage of larks is brought in and opened, and two sparrowhawks are loosed after them.  The birds flutter around the beams, frantically trying to find a way out, while the hawks swoop and swerve effortlessly in pursuit, the men shout and bet on the next kill, and the dogs circle around barking madly in the excitement until one mastiff takes exception to another and soon there is a vicious fight in progress in the centre of the hall.  They are both big dogs, who have been eyeing each other for days, and now they have decided to establish who shall have the mastery.  The betting moves on to them, while above in the rafters the hawks take their prey and sit contentedly plucking them, so that feathers drift down unnoticed into the chaos below while the remaining terrified larks flutter under the thatch or hide in it as best they can.

Between the snarling and the screaming of the dogs and the frenzy of the men, there is so much noise that the cry from outside is not heard at first.  Then, almost as the door is dragged open and a frantic warrior darts in, shouting at the top of his lungs to be heard through the din, someone glances at the window.

_“FIRE!”_


	12. Aethelflaed

I think a hundred years have passed this evening before I hear the sound of the bolt sliding back.

I slip into the outer part of the stable, and see the sprawled bodies of Dagfinn and the other guards.  They are drugged, not dead, and the young Saxon I recognise as another of Uhtred’s followers gestures me to the outer door and the garments on the floor behind it.  It was he who brought the ale earlier, drinking a cupful of it himself and laughing at how Lord Erik had taken thought for their thirst on a hot evening but bidden him water it first lest their eyes grow heavy.

“Put it on, Lady,” he whispers.  “Then wait.  It’ll be any minute now.”

He slips out of the door as I pick up the robe, which is threadbare and too long for me but hooded, and has a rope belt which I can tie in such a way as to keep the robe hitched up.

Then I wait. 

Outside everything is quiet.  One of the guards moans, and the sound is frightening; are they waking already?

Then I hear a distant shout.

Others take it up, and it comes nearer. 

“Fire!  _Fire!_ ”

Beamfleot, of course, is full of wooden buildings.  There are many old stone buildings too, built by the Romans and patched up as best can be contrived, but their wooden roofs have been either patched or replaced with thatch, and thatch burns.  It is many days since it rained, and the fields are parched in heat that feels more like that of midsummer.

Feet outside break into a run, and there are panicking voices.  I snatch up the platter and the jug in which the guards’ drugged drink was brought, and when there is a sudden great splurge of activity outside I pull up my hood and hitch up my robe with the other hand, and run out into the midst of it, wailing “The end of the world!  The end of the world!”

“Out of the way, fool!” A hard hand gives me a shove, and I stagger and almost fall, but no-one pays any heed; they are all staring and running towards where smoke and sparks are billowing towards the night sky.

I dodge among them, still wailing and crying, and they are all too urgent to be rid of me to care.  They push me away, bidding me fetch water from the well – yes, the one by the stable, fool! – and rush off in all directions, one shouting for firehooks and another for ladders, for if the fire is not contained all Beamfleot will burn!

I clutch the jug and drop the platter, and run to the well, where there is no bucket on the rope so I begin trying to dip the jug into it and crying because it will not reach the water.

A hand grabs me by the shoulder and shoves me towards the door and a familiar young voice dins in my ears: “Get a pail, half-wit!  Inside!”

I drop the jug and, still wailing, run inside.

But inside I stop wailing.  The white mare is waiting; she is haltered, and ropes hang from the nose-strap instead of reins, but a saddle would be too hard to explain away and so she has a neck strap in place, and hidden in the straw beside her there is a folded cloth and a girth.

I hastily throw the cloth into place and secure it with the girth.  It will give me a little purchase on her back, and after all I will need little time – just _enough_ , if I can get through...!

Breathing a prayer to Saint Æthelthryth, who in her lifetime must have had trouble and to spare with her two husbands, I scramble onto the mare’s back and drive my heels into her sides.

She emerges into chaos.  Other horses are loose, and follow us out, and the smell of smoke puts them in a panic.  More are already trampling through the streets, looking for a way of escape, kicking and biting people who try to catch and calm them; the torchlight gleams on upflung heads and wild, scared eyes.

The gate opens.  People too are trying to escape, terrified the fire will spread – it is in more than one place now, and the sound of its roaring climbs on the night air even above the screams and yells and the terrified neighing of the horses.  Now flames are visible, leaping skyward, casting flickering lights and shadows everywhere, and a hot wind from the south fans it.

Beamfleot is burning.

I crouch low along the mare’s neck, grasping her neck-strap with one hand while I try to guide her.  She has caught the contagion of panic, and when a sudden eddy of other horses surges towards the gate I do not even have to guide her; I simply have to hold on and pray.

The feasting-hall is almost opposite the gate.  The skein of horses sweeps past it even as the front doors crash open and warriors burst forth.  In the flame-light and torch-light I cannot even make out faces, only a blur of bodies, pale faces and open mouths.  Then I am past, and the gate is before me, and before I know it I am through, and free.

Free, for the greatest test of all....


	13. Sigefrid

_“Fire!”_

Fear clutches at my belly as we fight our way out of the hall; I cannot believe how fire can have spread so quickly.  The streets are in chaos, and we must impose order quickly, or it will burn us out.

I turn to Erik of course – he is the one whose cool head will know what is best to do, and I will yell and curse and beat everyone around us into obedience and we will get the fire under control and begin to assess the damage.

But he is not looking at the fire, though it is clearly visible beyond the nearest house.  Instead his eyes are fixed on one of the horses some fool has let loose – as though we had not enough to cope with!  They gallop past us, mad with fear of the fire, and someone falls screaming under the hooves but we have enough to think of without asking after the fate of one dolt without the wit to jump aside in time...

Even over the noise, I hear him gasp: _“Æthelflaed!”_

How he knows her, Hel only knows; she is but a shape atop a white horse.  But I have no doubt that he is right, and even as he clutches at the mane of a racing skewbald and hauls himself up onto its back, I scream for others to follow him, and catch the girl – the Wessex ransom shall not get away!

I catch one somehow, cow-hocked bag of bones!, though it takes me a moment of scrambling and sweating to get myself to rights on its back one-handed.  I swear by all the gods, for this night’s work I’ll have her tied naked in the square and humped by everyone who cares to take a turn, and Alfred can pay his own weight in gold for whatever’s left!

We gallop at full pelt out through the gateway, a chaos of mostly riderless horses.  Some, unguided, veer off the path and begin to slow in uncertainty; others carry on, and some of them pay the price when they are unable to stop as the ground grows steeper under their hooves and they crash among the scrub, their screams splitting the night. But a knot carries on, with the white mare at its head – fool girl, to pick out a pretty horse on which she is so clearly visible!

I expect her to follow the road to the left when it levels out, heading for the open ground eastward where she will have the advantage on that strip of wind that calls itself a horse.  The advantage at first, because even I saw when it was brought in that it was bred for speed, and it can outstrip anything we have in a straight race.  But if she thinks we will give up, she will learn differently, and that pretty mare has nothing like the stamina that our war-horses have.  I’ll chase it till its heart bursts asunder and then I’ll feed it to my dogs and stake her out on its raw bleeding skin!

But instead of racing for the open ground, the white horse suddenly veers to the left.  Most keep going, but one or two go with it, and all of them race for the jetty where the _Sea Witch_ is warped alongside.

There are guards, of course, but none of them cares to stand against a galloping horse.  I expect her to pull up and leap into the _Sea Witch_ (Erik’s, of course, the gods curse him!), but the ship is tied fast and there is no sign of a crew aboard, and she does not stop, she does not even slow down, and instead it is my heart that almost stops as I see the white mare race to the end of the jetty and leap into space, a dark shape still clinging to its neck.

The other two horses are going too fast to stop, and they go too.  The dark water of the Temes explodes into white chaos, and for a moment I almost think Erik will follow, but he just manages to pull up short of the brink.

I have flogged my horse so hard with my belt that we are only a couple of lengths behind him.  “No!” I scream.

He turns his face to me as the skewbald plunges underneath him, its hooves skittering on the planking.  “She can’t swim!” he shouts.

“We’ll launch the boats!” I yell at him, and turn to scream at a couple of warriors who also had the wits and the skill to seize horses and follow us.  “Get after her!”

He hesitates.  Now side by side, we stare out at the churning water where the horses have started to swim.  Against the dark, choppy surface the white mare’s back stands out.

There is no-one on her.

Erik gives a little moan, but I snatch at his arm.  “Look!”

A hand clutches at the white mane and moments later a sodden body hauls itself back across the withers, hanging on for dear life.  She will realise her danger, she will turn around and surrender herself meekly and beg for mercy, which she will not get – does the fool think anyone could swim the Temes on horseback?

Maybe she does.  Or maybe she knows what mercy she can expect, for she pushes the mare onwards into the darkness, where the light of burning Beamfleot will not reach when the running tide wears out the mare’s strength and carries both of them away to be borne out to sea.

 _“NO!”_ Erik tears his arm from my grasp and digs his heels into his horse, and the brute leaps forward and lands with a huge splash in the water below.

He is stronger than the girl.  He hangs on, and the skewbald surfaces and steadies itself, and both of them begin swimming.

We used to have swimming contests with the other boys back in Hardangerfjord, and he was almost always the winner.  But those were clear, calm waters, blue under the sun, and these are black and whipped by the wind, criss-crossed by currents and driven by the running tide; the far shore of Cent is invisible, far beyond reach even if the girl could see to steer towards it.

“Erik!” I bellow.  _“ERIK!”_

More men have arrived.  They are trying to unfasten boats, but the tide is flowing fast and the wind blowing onshore, and endless moments pass before even a single small rowing-boat thrusts out from the side of the jetty beside _Sea Witch_.  _“Bring him back!”_ I scream at them.  _“Get the girl if you can, but stop Erik!”_

They take precious time to find a rhythm; their oars clash, and the boat rocks dangerously, so that I am almost tempted to leap in and take charge of it myself.  Finally they settle to a strong, fast stroke, their oars digging in so hard that the prow of the boat fairly leaps through the water, but already the white patch on the skewbald’s rump is hardly visible, and the mare has gone, vanished into the broken waves and the darkness.  One or two other boats eventually push out too, but it is clear they have little enthusiasm for the search, and little hope of finding anything.  Rán of the Storms is driving clouds across the moon, bringing a heavy, stinging rain, and the sounds of splashing vanish far out on the Temes.

*          *          *

He is gone.

Dawn is breaking over the east in a sorry smear of dreary lemon light as they lay a sodden piece of cloth in my hands.  Part of the girl’s dress, found caught in a driftwood branch on a shingle bar far out in the river.  A little further on, the mare’s neck-strap was washing among the pebbles on the shoreline.  Of the girl herself, or Erik, or even of their horses, there is no sign.

The rain has not long stopped falling.  Parts of Beamfleot are still smouldering, and much damage has been done.  The downpour has turned baked earth to mud, and outside the gates an untidy heap of dead horses are waiting to be butchered, broken legs jutting awkwardly here and there.   My own is not among them, and nor has it been found by the men sent out to round up the survivors; and it had a white patch on its rump....

“She might still have got away, my lord,” suggests Haesten, uneasily.

“Swimming naked all the way to Cent in the dark?” I turn on him, my swelling grief and rage finding a vent; I have lost the ransom, but worse than that in the dawn is the knowledge that I have lost my brother, and Haesten certainly will not grieve the loss, fool and knave that he is! “Was she a Saxon or a mermaid?”

“My lord, I–” He gets no further.  My fist takes him in the mouth, and hurls him backward.  As he crashes across the nearby table I see another face superimposed over his, blue eyes staring sightlessly at a clearing sky through the glassy water.  Even my brother could not out-swim the Temes. He has exchanged the arms of his Saxon princess for those of Rán and her nine daughters, and I do not know how I shall bear it.

And what shall I say to Alfred’s emissary?  What word will run through the kingdoms, that Sigefrid Thurgilson could not hold one slip of a girl safely prisoner, and lost not only the girl and the ransom but his brother to boot, all in the same night?

My severed wrist aches as though demons were savaging it; my mouth tastes as though a maggoty dog has whelped in it and died.  I turn aside and snatch up a jug.  There is ale in the bottom of it, and I swallow and swallow until I choke.

When I come back to myself, I am alone.  Haesten has taken his chance to escape, and he will find some errand to keep him away till my temper has cooled.  Wisely.  Very wisely.

I am alone.  Even the dogs skulk under the table, peering out at me anxiously.

 _Erik.  Erik, my brother._ Together we were unbeatable.  I remember him standing straddle-legged at the prow of the _Sea Witch_ as we hoisted sails for England, laughing his strong laugh as we set out for the island of Britain, where we would grow fat and rich....

I up-end the jug again, and begin drinking.

Just for tonight, I will forget that he was a fool in love.  I will remember only that he was my brother, and I loved him.


	14. Uhtred

For certain the gods were smiling on us this night, for I think I have never come nearer to disaster.

All began well enough; we made our way undetected to Beamfleot and lay up in the reed beds till dark.  Presently we heard the clamour of the alarm in the fort, and as the anxious guards left their post and walked to the end of the jetty to see what was amiss we slipped into the water and swam silently to the _Sea Witch_ and the small boat that was tied up alongside her, close against the piers.

Sihtric and Rypere did their work well.  Soon we heard the distant thunder of hooves, and knew that Æthelflaed had made her escape; and I slid into the water again and made my way to the end of the jetty, reaching it almost as the first clatter sounded on the planking above me.

But we had not counted on there being more than one horse, and only the gods know how Æthelflaed lived as she flung herself off the mare.  If she had landed on the right she would certainly have died, for a second horse landed almost on top of hers and would certainly have crushed anyone in the water beside it; two others crashed in at the left, but somehow avoided her.  In the turmoil I thrust out from the shadow of the jetty, grabbed her and thrust her back towards it, while beside me Caedmon swam like an otter for the white mare and scrambled to grip the arched white neck.

I heard Erik’s voice above us and then Sigefrid’s.  I pushed Æthelflaed towards the small boat, and Finan’s strong hands seized her even as Sihtric scrambled across _Sea Witch_ and dropped into the stern.  Then came the massive splash of Erik’s horse hitting the water, followed by Sigefrid’s frantic bawls to anyone there to listen, ordering them to put out boats in pursuit.

We got ready – Æthelflaed, still clad in her sopping robe, sat beside Sihtric, while Finan and I took up the oars at the back.  I knew without a word said that he shuddered even as I did as our hands closed on the smooth wood, but lives hung on our oars and it was not a time for letting memory overwhelm us.

We hung back as long as we dared, but other boats would be launching and we had to be first; Erik would not go far, but do his best to keep his horse swimming in a circle short of the main flow of the tide as he waited for us to follow him.  With a feigned clatter of oars we thrust away from the jetty and began pursuit.  Darkness would hide the fact that two of the rowers were soaked to the skin, and Sigefrid aloft would care only that we were rowing, not who we were – though needless to say we kept our faces low, and did not even glance up to where he sat his horse at the end of the planking, roaring after his vanished brother.

 _‘Pull!  Pull!’_ Sverri’s hated voice sounded in my ears as my back bent and straightened, my muscles falling into the familiar long, smooth movements, and doubtless it sounded in Finan’s too. But neither of us had breath to spare for talking even if we had wished, to as the jetty and the flame-lit shape of Beamfleot behind it began to recede.

As soon as we were well into our stroke and the boat moving powerfully, Sihtric and Æthelflaed shipped their oars and scrambled to the prow.  Out here there was hardly any light, but we had a horn lantern ready, and as soon as he had recovered a little breath Sihtric began shouting – Æthelflaed too calling as loudly as she dared, for the wind was shoreward and sound carries far at night, especially over water.

During the day I had studied the far bank carefully, trying to note anything that might be visible against the night sky to give me my bearings.  Glancing around, I thought we were bearing too far left – the current was taking us fast.  I grunted orders at Finan and between us we hauled the boat around across the flow, feeling the burn in our muscles as the effort began to tell.

_“There!”_

I have never, before or since, heard such relief in a woman’s voice as in hers that night as the lantern-light glanced off a patch of white and brown hide, and a man clinging to it.

Hope gives a body extra strength.  The row-boat’s prow fairly lifted from the water as we turned and drove it.

Thurgilson was a good swimmer, but the effort of trying to steer his panicking horse without saddle or bridle had fairly exhausted him.  He barely had the strength to throw up a hand and seize the gunwale, and long struggling moments passed before we were able to haul him aboard and drop him in the well of the boat like a bundle of wet washing.  But he was alive, gasping hoarsely for breath, and Sihtric dropped a lip twitch over the nose of the hapless horse in the water and passed the handle of it to Æthelflaed in the stern.  The poor beast had no strength left to resist, and as we once more began to row, this time going fast downstream with the current towards a distant wooded spur where a tiny wink of light gleamed among the trees, it made shift to swim too, doubtless finding easier going in the water broken by the boat before it.  Sihtric sat in the prow and gave directions, and for sure it was easier thus than trying to look around and row.

The gods have been with us thus far, but one other life – if not two – now hangs heavy on my heart as I bend to that hateful sweep of the oar.  But for the fact that time is our deadly enemy I should still snatch glances over my shoulder.  Caedmon was confident, saying he had been swimming in the Temes before he could walk, but it is an evil night, and rain has begun to fall heavily.  Erik was a strong man and he is plainly done; how much harder must it have been with so much further to travel?

There are no words for the way my spirits leap as I hear Sihtric softly breathe thanks to Ægir.  “They are there, my lord!” he says eagerly. 

Finan mutters something, but it is too slurred with effort for me to make out the words.  Still, the tone is enough, and we drive onwards till the shift of the water beneath the boat tells us we are into the shallows and we have hardly begun backing the oars before the prow runs into the gravel with a shock that nearly unseats us all.

Clapa has the horses ready, though the two that have been in the water this night are not fit to be ridden and our refugees must ride pillion.  I drop a hand in thanks on to Caedmon’s shoulder and promise him his reward, even though the smile that already lights up his face is almost brighter than the flame of a lamp.  He too must be blind weary, and as for the white mare, she stands with drooping head and trembling legs; there are few ventures where the gods do not demand at least one sacrifice, and it may well be that she is the one.  In a kinder world we would let her eat and rest, but this is a world governed by necessity, and we can only throw a blanket over her and set a gentle pace as we lead her off into the wood.  We must be far from here by the time the sun rises, though the glow of Beamfleot burning still lights the sky to the west and there can be little doubt that those within will have other things on their minds than searching for fugitives in the woodlands around them.

Rypere is the only one missing from our band as we skirt Beamfleot well to the north, but I am not afraid for him; Sihtric assures me that he made his escape from the fort and was well gone.  He can find his way back to our camp, where the rest of my warriors will be waiting anxiously, and if needs be from thence to Cookham.  He too shall have his reward, if the gods permit us all to win through.

Erik rides pillion behind Finan, Æthelflaed behind me – it is seemlier so, I being her father’s ealdorman.  We have no woman’s clothes for her to change into, but she is warmly wrapped in blankets, and when we make a halt she will have to don whatever we can find between us.  Thankfully the wind is warm enough, so the rain, although not pleasant, is not as chilling as it could be.  We have had no time for words yet, but I have seen her smile, and it was even brighter than Caedmon’s.  I saw, too, the moment when she and my lord Thurgilson looked at one another as they came ashore.  As weary and worn as both of them were, for one instant they shone for each other like lamps before their light was hooded and put away for a fitter time.

Gisela, too, shines thus....

But I cannot think of Cookham yet.  There are obstacles still to be overcome before I will see Gisela again, and many miles yet to travel.


	15. Aethelflaed

_Free!_

I have never heard birds sing before, or so it seems as we ride through the forest in the dawn light.  I am beyond tired, I am wet, I am hungry, and the hours of riding pillion have made every bone in my body ache, but still it feels as though the song on every side finds an echo in my heart.

I am free.

There will be no ransom, there will be no invasion, and best of all I have the man I love riding almost within touching distance.  We have hope, though I still hardly dare think of the future yet.  By the way the warriors ride, glancing around warily, I know that we are not out of danger yet.

And indeed, we do not dare ride in daylight.  Soon we turn aside into a deep-sided cleft in the side of a hill, and push through the thicket within.  There is enough space to hide the horses and lie down, and pine trees high above have dropped a thick carpet of needles that lend the ground some softness.  Finally, thankfully, we come to a halt.  We can rest.

Dismounting will be agony.  I long to be off this poor horse’s back, but my legs are so stiff I feel as if I will fall as soon as my feet touch the ground.  My arms are wrapped around Uhtred’s body (a contact of which I am certain my lord father would most deeply disapprove), but his solid strength has been all that has kept me upright during the long hours of cautious travel through woods that seem to have neither tracks nor breaks.  I am not even sure I can loose my hands from their grip of his tunic; they feel as though they are frozen in place.

“Can you get down, Lady?” His soft question is threaded with concern.  It saves me from having to admit my state, and I am so grateful to him I am suddenly on the verge of tears, my voice caught in my throat.

Fortunately one other sees my predicament.  Almost before I have drawn breath, Erik is beside me, holding up his arms, and as I reach down to him it seems to me that I reach towards life itself.

*          *          *

By the time the long summer day has worn itself away, I have slept my tiredness with it, though not my aches and pains.  Hours on the ground, despite the pine-needles and the men’s cloaks laid to make a bed for me, have made me more stiff and sore than ever.

But I am a Princess of Wessex, and I grit my teeth and force my weary limbs to move.  I will not slow us down and I will not complain, not if we must ride all night.

It is almost more than I can bear to settle myself back behind Uhtred, but the white mare is still not recovered and besides, we have no saddle for her.  Erik contrives a pad saddle for the skewbald, and if we reach safer territory later on it may be best for him to ride on that, even if it must be led; my extra weight is not enough to put too great a strain on Uhtred’s mount, but Finan’s cannot carry two men indefinitely, though until then it is safest for him to stay pillion a little longer in case of some sudden alarm.

There has been little food for any of us, just a strip of dried meat and a piece of bannock, though a thread of water trickled down among the hart’s-tongue ferns not far from the mouth of our shelter and I was able to drink.  Between them the men made shift to find me the driest set of clothing to be had, though I shudder to think of what my lady mother would say to see me now.  My rescuers politely averted their eyes while I dressed and pretended not to notice how I look, though I saw the glimmer of amusement in Uhtred’s eyes; he has always had a keen sense of the absurd, and it is probably too late to expect him to change now.

Erik held low-voiced converse with Uhtred as I changed my clothes.  As a result, I notice that my lord Thurgilson seems to have taken charge of the direction we take.  Now that the sun has set and full darkness has taken us, the stars are visible between the trees; doubtless these are enough to guide a man who has sailed his ship far beyond sight of land, and he seems confident.  I am less sure that the others are so happy with this development, but they defer to Uhtred’s judgement that the Dane can be trusted.

The night wears on.  Boredom wars with anxiety; there is little to see, but I am conscious that the men around me are listening tensely for any sound that may suggest we have been seen or are being pursued.

But there are no alarms, and there is the first prying finger of dawn light in the sky when we finally emerge from the forest onto a sweep of empty land.  By the sense of relaxation all around me, I know that we have reached the border; we should not linger, but if we have not been found by now then the chances are less that we will be.  Admittedly we can be seen at a distance, but then we can also see, and react more quickly to the arrival of an enemy on the scene.

“There.”  Erik points.  A little way down the fringe of the forest stands a great oak tree, and while we stand guard he dismounts and starts digging with his seax under one of the roots.  Soon the turf is pulled back to reveal a lump of sacking, and it jingles as he hauls it forth.

“Trust yourself first and the Fates second,” he says with a smile, tucking the package into the breast of his tunic.

I cannot see Uhtred’s face of course, but I can imagine the wry smile.  “Your wife will be a wealthy woman,” he remarks.

Erik does not look at me as he remounts, but Finan is less subtle.  I see an eyebrow climb, and I am hard put to it not to smile in return.

*          *          *

I think that we will stop while we can still shelter among the trees, but as the summer nights are short and we still have far to go, it seems that the ealdorman of Bebbanburg wishes to press on a little further.

We do not press the weary horses.  Instead we choose a route that takes advantage of the soft undulations of the ground, heading roughly north and west.

My lessons in statecraft with my father taught me much about the geography of Britain.  It seems to me that we are heading for Mercia, and that is the last place I wish to be.

I choose a moment when the narrowness of the gully we are travelling down makes it necessary for the horses to travel single file, and glance around before I tap the broad shoulder before me.

“Uhtred!” I whisper.  “Where are we going?”

“Why, I thought you would be eager to be reunited with your husband, Lady Æthelflaed,” he replies, his smile audible.

Erik is behind us.  I catch a growled comment in Danish that Uhtred understands and I do not, for my lord of Bebbanburg is mightily amused.

“We are heading for Caedmon’s village,” he says, when he has done chuckling.  “It will be necessary for you to hide somewhere while I make arrangements.  If you are absolutely sure you can dispense with the charms of my cousin as a husband.”

I think of Æthelred’s unpredictable temper, his ready fists, his violent lust, and I shudder.

Uhtred must feel the shiver, for he pats my knee comfortingly, as if I were a child.  “We will take care of you, my Lady.”

I wonder what my father would think of a pagan and a Northman touching me so familiarly, and then it strikes me with a throb of pain that my father will never know.  From this day forward, my father and mother will believe me dead.

The thought of their grief is so terrible to me that for a moment I think that I must be beyond selfish to purchase my own happiness with theirs.  But a movement beside me makes me glance aside, and there is Erik, gazing at me with steady, concerned blue eyes. 

I have done my duty for Mercia.  I married as I was bidden.  It was thanks to my husband that I was delivered to the Northmen, and had that never happened I might never have set eyes on the man I love.  I would have lived with Æthelred in misery, most likely to die bearing his children – the children of a man for whom I will never feel even respect, let alone affection.

Now I have the opportunity to seize a new life.  It must be without the blessing of my family or of Holy Church, but I can do no other. 

Erik is my fate.


	16. Uhtred

The gods are undoubtedly with us, for on the way back to Wintanceaster I fall in with the rest of my warband, returning to Cookham as I had ordered them to if I had not reappeared within so many days, and further on we encounter the messenger from Alfred, riding to find me.  Clearly he has been worked upon by the voices speaking sense (Beocca’s and Odda’s chief among them, no doubt) to swallow his pious Christian reluctance to use the services of a pagan.

“I am on my way to the king now, with news of his daughter,” I respond.

The messenger would clearly like to know more, but only those who came with me to Beamfleot know what happened there.  They are the ones I can trust absolutely to keep their mouths shut, and they will sensibly keep them that way; the gifts that Erik gave to them on parting have added liking to admiration, for a lord should be open-handed.  Moreover, even if this was not so, any breath of a suggestion that the daughter of Alfred of Wessex had fallen in love with a Danish warlord and we aided her to elope with him would be the end of all of us, so they know when to hold their tongues for their own sakes as well as for hers.

*          *          *

Doubtless I am expected to ride directly to the king’s palace when we reach Wintanceaster, but instead I ride to a small convent in one of the shabby side-streets.

Hild is as she always is – graceful and calm, restrained in her greetings even though she smiles as she always does to see me again.  She offers me food and ale, which I am glad of, and sits with me as I eat.

“You need me for something,” she says finally, with her wise smile.  “You have been up to mischief, Uhtred, I know it.”

“I have been about more than that,” I reply, my voice low even though we are alone.  “I want you to go to the king tomorrow and tell him you have seen a vision in a dream.  Tell him some Christian saint or other says you must go on pilgrimage to Eoforwic.  He will believe you.”

“Eoforwic?” Her fine eyebrows rise.  She looks at me measuringly, though still with the hint of a smile.

But a couple of moments later there is no hint of a smile on her face.  She does not interrupt – that is not Hild’s way – but after I have done speaking she sits for a while, absorbing all that I have said.

“You truly think this was for the best.” She is stating, not asking.  One of the things I love about Hild is that she always thinks the best of me, even when I do not deserve it.

“I would not have done it, else.” I lean forward.  “Alfred and Ælswith will grieve for her dead, but if the ransom had been paid then by the turn of the year they would have been king and queen of a graveyard, if there had been enough of them left to bury.  As for my fool of a cousin, he could not keep Æthelflaed safe when he had all of Mercia to hide her in.

“And it is not only they whom I carry on my heart.  There are others beside, who would be forced to hand over every silver penny they own to make up the ransom, and pay for their own deaths thereby.  Why should they be despoiled to their own destruction and that of their families, and in the end to achieve nothing?”

“And she loves him,” she muses.

“She does.  Beyond reason, if I am any judge of women.”

I win a smile for that.  The sort of smile that says I have enough experience of women to be a good judge.

“And what of Lord Thurgilson, the Viking who has brought terror to the seas – does he too love beyond reason?”

“I believe he does,” I say slowly.  “He could have held her prisoner and Alfred would have had no choice but to pay the ransom.  Even afterwards, he could have tried to recapture her when Mercia fell.  But he gave up the ransom and he betrayed his brother, for love.  And he loved Sigefrid – that I know beyond any doubt.  That is the measure of what he feels for Æthelflaed, that for her he was willing to give up everything.”

“Then it seems I shall have a visitation in my dreams tonight.”

“And you a nun and a Christian!” I tease.

“From Saint Eadburh,” she says primly, putting me firmly in my place.

*          *          *

I do not linger, though there are details still to be settled; my plan is for Erik and Æthelflaed to stay quietly as anonymous travellers somewhere in the vicinity of Eoforwic while Hild travels north to Dunholm and talks to Ragnar on their behalf.  I have no fears that Ragnar will refuse them sanctuary – the whole affair will doubtless entertain him enormously – but I would rather that the plans for this were made in secret, as there are many wagging tongues and it would be better if they avoided Dunholm altogether.

The next task is one to which I am not looking forward.  Thor knows I have little time for Alfred and less for his queen, but that they love their daughter I have no doubt, and I know what it is to lose a child.  Mine lived long enough to wrap his tiny fingers around a piece of my heart, and took it with him to the grave; so as I make my way to the palace my mood is grim, remembering.

The Witan is in progress as I arrive – not surprising.  I request admittance, which is granted at once; at a guess Alfred will be impatient for my arrival.

This guess is proven right by the scowl with which he greets me. 

Ælswith is seated on his left, and has some ado to conceal her look of relief.  I doubt whether she has in any way mellowed towards my paganism, but she is more of a pragmatist than her husband; for all that she is a devout Christian she will be less inclined to let abstract considerations stand in the way of obtaining a very tangible and important goal.  To regain their daughter in safety she will be prepared to wink at using the services of a barbarian and a pagan, and she even gives me a small, tremulous smile of hope that makes my already heavy heart sink further.

Æthelred is standing just beside her, in the privileged place reserved for the king’s son-in-law.  He looks as if he has smelled something bad; maybe Aldhelm farted.

Beocca, on the king’s right, makes no secret of his delight at my arrival.  Poor Beocca, he has such faith in me; now that I am here, I am sure he sees Æthelflaed all but recovered.

I wish that there was some way I could confide the truth to him, but there is no possibility of that.  For all that he is happier with Thyra than I have ever known him, he could never agree to the necessity for separating Æthelflaed from her legally wedded husband, even though without it Erik would never have agreed to help us. The Christians’ nailed god is even stricter than our own gods upon the keeping of the marriage vows, and the thought of the princess of Wessex living in sin with her Viking lover would most likely give Beocca a heart attack.  So though he too will grieve, he will grieve less for her dead than for her in mortal sin.

I will never understand Christians....

“We have been expecting your arrival these three days,” says Alfred bitingly.  “If you had been at Cookham, you could have attended us immediately.”

“In fairness, your Grace, he was banished from the court,” Beocca interjects anxiously, as though this minor matter might easily have slipped the king’s mind.  “He could have no way of knowing that he was to be summoned....”

Alfred acknowledges this with a small, unwilling nod.  “The Thurgilson brothers have let us know that my daughter can be ransomed,” he continues coldly, his vision fixed on a point just above my head.  “It has been suggested that you may be of assistance with the negotiations.”

I do not want to speak.  The moment when I saw the tiny mound of freshly-turned earth is too fresh in my mind, and for a moment I cannot force the words past the blockage in my throat.

“My lord king, I ask to have a word with you and Lady Ælswith in private.”

He is not expecting this.  Nor is anyone else.  A little silence falls on the room, and Æthelwold – not always the fool he chooses to appear – looks at me sharply.

“There is nothing you have to say to me that cannot be said before the Witan.”

I look down at the floor and back up at him again.

I think that Ælswith has some foreshadowing of the truth.  Her hands suddenly grip together on the cross she wears about her neck, and her face goes pale.

It is old Odda who gives Alfred the opportunity to accede to my request without appearing weak.  “Your Grace, Uhtred has been absent monitoring the situation at Beamfleot.  He may have some information on events that should not be made general knowledge.”

Even now I suspect that the king fears only to hear that his daughter has been raped.  After all, her safety may be guaranteed (depending on the appearance of the ransom) but she is in the hands of the barbarians after all, who are without honour.

If this is indeed the case, he will not want the Witan made privy to it.  He may even feel some touch of gratitude that for a pagan I have enough delicacy to understand that his daughter’s reputation must be protected if at all possible.

His mouth tightens still further, but he nods, and he and Ælswith turn and walk quickly to the private rooms behind the council chamber.  Beocca follows, and after a brief hesitation, his eyes hard and searching on my face, Odda does the same.  I think Æthelred would like to follow, but he does not quite have the courage to come unbidden, and after all the matter is only the wellbeing of his wife.

Alfred reaches his chamber and turns around quickly, his shoulders braced.  “What have you to tell me concerning my daughter?”

How does anyone tell a man and his wife that their daughter is dead?

“My lord King, there was an incident at Beamfleot.” I draw a deep breath.  “It seems that Lady Æthelflaed saw the chance to escape and was brave enough to attempt to take it.”

“‘Attempt’?” He is on the word like a striking hawk.  Beside him, Ælswith’s eyes fill, though she makes no sound.

“She escaped from her prison, stole a horse and rode out of the fortress during the chaos of a fire,” I continue.  “She was pursued and alone, and must have known that if she tried to ride through the forest she would have been overtaken, recaptured and punished.  Instead she rode to the jetty.  She swam her horse into the Temes in the dark of the night, in a storm.  The river there is wide and fast – they would have been swept down towards the sea as soon as they were into the current.  Neither of them was found and recaptured.”

“Dead?” Alfred whispers, stunned and uncomprehending.  “My daughter is _dead?_ ”

“It was a great fire, lord,” I add.  “I believe that Erik Thurgilson was also lost, and that the fort was badly damaged.”

Behind him, Odda’s shoulders slump with relief.  He knows that this tragedy is the salvation of Wessex.

“It took great courage to do as she did, lord,” I say quietly.  “For that, the Lady Æthelflaed will always have my admiration.”

For a moment, Alfred stares into the distance.  Doubtless in his mind’s eye he sees a body, carried out into the dark waters of the sea, denied the sacraments and even a burial place.  But a body undefiled, spared the worst of the fears that must have tormented him in the dark hours and the dark places of his mind.

He turns and gathers his wife into his arms.  For a moment only they are simply man and wife, united in their grief, and doubtless later and for many days to come they will grieve privately, out of the sight of others.  But though Ælswith’s shoulders heave with sobs, Alfred’s face is a dry, carved mask of sorrow.  Æthelflaed was perhaps the closest to him of all his children, and I guess that his pain is too deep for the easy relief of tears.  Maybe later, in the privacy of their bedchamber, he will be able to let them fall.

When the first onslaught of a father’s grief has passed over, I know that the king will see things in a different light.  A daughter imprisoned by the barbarians will have become a martyr, a rallying-cry for all Wessex and Mercia, a heroic phoenix reborn from the ashes of captivity and shame.  Maybe, in time, even a saint!  For all his deep personal pain, he cannot be blind to what this will mean for the royal house of Wessex.  For now, however, it is his dearly beloved daughter whose loss he mourns. 

Odda gestures silently that we should leave.  Although his lined face too is set in new furrows of sorrow, he will be quick to perceive the blessing hidden within the dreadful news I have brought.  There will be no ransom demands, no humiliating suing to the enemy, no handing over of the wealth that would destroy the king and his kingdom both.  And perhaps sweeter even than these is the news that one of his worst enemies is also gone, and the threat from the East diminished accordingly.  Beamfleot is sorely damaged, and for at least a few months it should be possible for men to breathe more easily while Sigefrid licks his wounds and nurses his disappointment and rage.

“My lord Odda, you will have the goodness to advise my daughter’s ... widower of what has happened.” Alfred speaks stiffly as we reach the door.

Odda bends his head.  “I will, your Grace.”

The king’s red-rimmed eyes turn to me.  I think he must hate me still more now for not being able to avert this tragedy, for not restoring his daughter to him, but his voice is so controlled it is almost toneless.  “You have our gratitude for bringing this news, my lord of Bebbanburg.  You will of course attend Holy Mass with the rest of the court while we pray for the certain repose of my daughter’s soul.”

I nod.  It is not the first time I have stood obediently listening to the Christians praising their god, and perhaps it would not be out of place for me to offer thanks of my own, if to my own gods and in the privacy of my own heart.  After all, out of everything there is much to be thankful for.

Beocca is already praying, his face filled with sorrow for Æthelflaed and for her bereaved parents.  His eyes beg me to tell him there is some possibility that she may have escaped after all, but I can tell him no such thing.  Maybe one day, when we are all old and grey and such things as marriage vows have ceased to matter, I may tell him and bring joy to his old age, but until then it must stay a secret.  Though when I receive word from Hild that everything has gone according to plan, it may be that I shall breathe the truth to Gisela in the secrecy of our bed, for it will make her happy to know that Æthelflaed shares the same happiness with the man she loves.

Truly, _Wyrd bið ful aræd._


	17. The Epilogue: Erik

It takes us almost two days to reach the land that we are to call home.

As our guide pulls his horse to a halt, pointing, I see the valley spread out before us.  The river in the midst of it sparkles in the noonday sun, and the unmistakable shape of the hall sits perched on the opposite side, comfortably out of reach of the winter floods.  There is good cleared land for farming and higher slopes for sheep, and a couple of fat oxen graze in a field; Ragnar’s hand is hard but fair on this part of the world, and a man can look to build a life and raise a family with no more than his fair share of life’s troubles.

There will be much to learn, and much work to do.  It will be very different from the life of a Viking warlord, and indeed that of a Saxon princess, but I have wealth enough to ensure that my wife and children will not be without comfort and security, and the valley speaks to me of peace and happiness.  In Eoforwic we sought out a Christian priest and the passing over of a coin eased any qualms he might possibly have had on marrying an anonymous Dane to a modestly-veiled Saxon woman.  He bound our wrists with a piece of linen and mumbled the proper spells, and that was the business done; that night I lay with my wife, and it is my wife’s hand that I hold as we gaze out on our future home.  Our eyes meet, and I see in hers the equal joy and hope.

Here we can make our life together.  Here, with the Gods’ blessing, we can make our home and raise our children; we can live remote from the clashes of kings and warlords.

Here we can make our own kingdom.

Here, we can be happy.

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are really appreciated!


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